


Inner State

by Fides



Category: Inception (2010), State Within
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 122,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fides/pseuds/Fides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames had always known that there were only two ways to leave the special forces: death and treason (and even those weren't guaranteed). So far he'd avoided both and planned to keep it that way. Which was how he'd found himself back in Blighty with a government commission to militarise a member of Her Majesty's Opposition. The pay was shit (accommodations and living expenses provided) but came with promises of continued 'looking in the other direction' as far as some of his less legitimate activities were concerned. And it was one MP - how hard could it be?</p><p>Sir Mark Brydon hadn't thought his move from diplomacy to politics would turn out like this: an amazing wife, an adopted son and a constituency that didn't seem to hate him. At least not personally. A nice change from being neck deep in one of the worst government conspiracies for years. That was before the meeting with the serious looking men with serious looking paperwork for him to sign. Welcome to lucid dreaming, bureaucrat style.</p><p>This is a story about the past and the future. About truth, loyalty and morality - and lack thereof. About dreams and reality. But mostly it is a story about four men, six months and an anonymous office room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This story contains some disturbing themes e.g. reference to canonical character death, reference to war crimes, discussion of consent issues in lucid dreaming and some scenes which some people may interpret as dubcon.
> 
> Many thanks to Moth2fic for help with betaing and to everyone else who has looked at early drafts, given me encouragement or brought me tea and put up with me writing at every hour of the day.

> _If you can keep your head when all about you  
>  Are losing theirs and blaming it on you..._

~~~~

It was the American Bar at the Savoy. Or the Bar as visualised by a Hollywood producer who'd decided it was easier to rebuild it on a sound stage in the good ol' US of A than use the real thing; fundamentally itself but too shiny and bright and perfect to ever exist. Eames had once used it for a job involving a philandering stockbroker that had netted him an unexpected bonus in the form of a few nice tips for the markets (men really would say anything if they thought it would get them laid). Maybe it was that little bit of insider trading nearly doubling his take or just fond attachment to a job that had been both tight and clean, but it was one of his favourite fallback locations when he needed a casual setting more class than dive. Perfect for those sensitive discussions with diplomats-turned-politicians.

Eames'd forged himself a waiter's black trousers and crisp white shirt and topped it off with a pleasant, fresh face (early 20s, presentable, ambitious but not in a cut-throat way, cute enough to get a little extra in tips without being memorable. Straight - if you didn't count a bit of mostly teenage experimentation, which he didn't. Single - not currently looking for anything long term but not actively avoiding it either). Some people talked to the client, explained everything until the tremors of untrained confusion kicked everyone out of the dream in a violent object lesson. Eames had his own object lessons which were just as (more) effective and traumatised the client it a way that was helpful (and provided insurance should the client prove unreliable with regard to payment). He wove his way through the tables, taking the occasional order for verisimilitude as he kept an eye out for Sir Mark. They were playing with the reduced layout, just the bar area and not the entire hotel, so he wasn't difficult to spot. (Formal dress. Corner table; defensive position. Not alone!).

A table of well-heeled projections (female, young, professional, three white, one Asian, one black) offered him a good opportunity to observe. He waited as they debated good-naturedly over what to order, one eye on them and one on his target. The projection that Mark was sitting with was male and blond. Something about him set a tingle of recognition off in the back of Eames' skull that he couldn't quite place. Someone from Sir Mark's campaign? That didn't sit quite right in his mind but no name seemed forthcoming from his subconscious so he mentally put it aside to worry on later. The projection was dressed, as Mark was, in black tie although he wasn't wearing it quite as comfortably. They seemed friendly, chatting easily as they sipped their drinks. The body language was interesting - Mark leaning into his companion who was not pulling away but had a hint of protectiveness about his posture. As interesting as it was, Eames decided it was time he cut in.

An offer of a few more minutes to decide got him away from the table and he walked boldly over to Sir Mark.

"Your bill, sir." Sir Mark looked momentarily surprised but not even the faintest tremor disturbed the dream as the suggestion took. Eames proffered the closed server book politely. It was empty but the moment Mark took it his mind would fill in the details of an appropriate bill. Of course, there was always a risk that the client or mark would dream up enough cash but all it took was a little prompting and when the total was revealed, lo and behold it was an amount you stuck on plastic. "Will you be paying by card?" Eames asked politely.

Sir Mark looked at the bill and nodded easily, waving off the projection who was also reaching into jacket. A projection willing to go dutch - first time for everything. Eames took the folder back, impressed by the list of charges that Sir Mark had conjured up for himself and his companion. Out of habit Eames memorised their drinks preferences. Keying in the total he held out the card reader politely. "If you could just enter your pin..."

The projection withdrew his hand from of his jacket and Eames just had time to be surprised that he was holding a gun before the shot snapped him back into reality. The last thing he registered as the dream broke apart was the look of total surprise on Sir Mark's face and the total lack of expression on the projection's.

That was not at all how it was supposed to go...

~~~~

"Is this really necessary?"

The voice was male. Eames immediately started categorising the accent (Estuary English with a definite Oxford overlay) and the tone (congenial, slightly exasperated, authoritative, resigned). It wasn't something he did consciously - it was just something he did. A few more minutes eavesdropping and he'd be able to do stand-up level impressions (bad stand-up anyway - you could fake a lot with the right attitude - but an unfair test in this case as he recognised the voice).

"As we explained, Sir Mark," the response was deferential but firm, slight Brummie accent not entirely smoothed away by the Whitehall patina, "as a senior member of the opposition and given your... history..."

Interesting. Eames smiled to himself. He'd done a little research (and not just Wikipedia, thank you very much) but when 'history' was said in that manner, and by a government wrangler... that suggested something more along the lines of wild orgies with barely legal rent boys, interns and other people's wives or a hushed up resuscitation after a near miss with a pair of stockings and an orange. Sadly, none of those possibilities jibed with what Eames had discovered. Given the way things had been going for him in recent months it probably wasn't anything more than a warning for possession left over from the carefree days of student hedonism. He wasn't above a little blackmail if that was what it took to get him out of this job and something juicy like a non-RSPCA-approved encounter with an over-friendly Alsatian was always going to have been to much to hope for.

The footsteps started up again and Eames slipped back to the chair he was supposed to have been waiting in patiently. With the ease of long practice he assumed a relaxed and careless pose intended to suggest that he was there of his own volition, had been there sometime and could be there until doomsday, or the nearest reasonable alternative, if necessary. Sipping the cup of tea he had barely filled rounded out the impression rather nicely, he felt.

His mother always said first impressions were important. Of course his mother had also told him not to listen at doors, but no one was right all the time.

The first man through the door was much younger than Eames had been expecting - but Eames would readily admit that he was of the right age that, in his head, all civil servants were Nigel Hawthorne even when they were clearly in their late thirties and Sikh. And he meant that literally (he could have done without his subconscious' projections of Sir Humphrey in a skirt as well).

"So sorry to keep you waiting," the man from Birmingham said (accent lost even further under the formality - probably strongest when he was relaxed. Even odds which way being around his family would push it). His expression suggested he meant anything but. Eames smiled anyway as he stood, hand out in the traditional greeting. The conventions had to be observed after all. The handshake was firm and polite (dry, professional, no sign of gun calluses).

He didn't offer a name but then Eames didn't expect him to. He did, however, step aside and introduce Eames to the real reason he was there.

"Sir Mark," Birmingham began. "This is..."

"Eames," he interrupted quickly. "Just call me Eames." He smiled, two-thirds deprecating and the final third a mix of humble confidence and an invitation to join him in the joke. He'd practised that smile. "I believe we'll be getting to know each other over the next few weeks."

"Mark." The smile he got in return was mostly real with just a little wariness and curiosity thrown in. It suggested friendly trustworthiness without marking the owner out an easy dupe. Eames assumed Sir Mark had also practised. "I understand that you're here to teach me."

"I understand that as well." Eames thought he spotted a flash of amusement in Mark's eyes as he spoke. "You've been briefed?"

"I have some questions." That was pretty much as expected.

Birmingham brought in a familiar looking case; matt black leather rather than silver and with a discreet union jack emblazoned on the top. Eames caught his sharp look at Mark's words. And so was that. One of the reasons he hated government jobs was the bloody bureaucracy.

"Some things you have to see," he demurred. Birmingham concentrated on the case again, at least temporarily reassured that Eames wasn't going to give away more secrets than he was supposed to. Sloppy, Eames thought. If they were going to be that jumpy (and they clearly were - and wasn't that interesting) then they should have sent two spooks to haunt them. PASIVs were only mostly foolproof and he had no intention of having his brain scrambled because someone wasn't paying the attention that they should've been to the chem mix because they were too busy watching him. Especially not someone who wasn't risking their own sanity if they fucked up. When everything was set up and ready, Eames didn't bother to hide the fact that he was double-checking everything, he carefully swabbed Sir Mark's arm and slid the needle in. Sir Mark didn't flinch - Eames gave him points for that.

He quickly swiped the antiseptic over his own skin an drove the narrow needle home with the ease of long practice. With a final quick look at Sir Mark, Eames got himself comfortable and gave Birmingham the nod. The familiar lethargy spread through his body; a goose-feather duvet on a cold night... Ovaltine for the soul... Warm arms around him... Soft lullaby voice whose sound promised safety...

"And if I die before I wake..." Eames thought nonsensically and forced himself to stop fighting.

~~~~

Eames woke with a start - not entirely sure if the headache he could feel brewing behind his eyes was real or metaphysical. He reached out and gave Mark a shove, better to get kicked out of a dream than to have the world disintegrate around you. Neither was ideal for someone's first time but the latter was definitely part of the advanced course along with death-by-projection.

Birmingham was looking at him oddly, clearly unsure if this was part of Eames' normal teaching style. Eames ignored him, squatting down by Mark's chair so he would be immediately seen when he opened his eyes.

"Mark?" Eames said softly. The blue eyes flicked open just long enough for Eames to catch the panic in them before Mark blinked rapidly. "Okay?" Eames spoke quickly but softly - wanting to focus Mark's attention on him without spooking the man. "Mark?"

Eames could almost feel in his own lungs the deep, shuddering breath that Mark took as he centred himself.

"I'm good," Mark said, "I'm good." Eames wasn't about to argue the point. "What happened?"

"One of your projections got a little testy."

"He shot... " Mark frowned slightly. The confusion wasn't surprising, Eames was impressed he'd remembered that much given it was his first time down and they hadn't got around to the big talk. Then again, seeing someone shot in the head right in front of you tended to stick with you - dream or reality.

"He did," Eames agreed. "Shows you have some natural talent. Now we just have to refine it." And while they were doing that Eames could work out what the fuck was going on. He'd never seen projections react like that - not in someone in their right mind anyway and if there was any chance that Mark wasn't in his right mind then Eames wanted to know sooner rather than later. "Ready to go down again."

Jaw set, Mark nodded.

This time Eames took them down to a desert that could have been Afghanistan, could have been Nevada or could have been the Australian outback depending on whether you wanted war games, kangaroos or a Burning Man festival. Eames had used it for all three and on one memorable occasion a combination. Mark's subconscious went with Bedouin encampment. It was rare to see structures that the dreamer didn't create but these projections were inspired by a nomadic group. Eames could happily believe that they brought their tents with them and pitched camp in his dream when conjured there by Mark's subconscious. It was interesting but not significant.

Eames ducked behind the heavy fall of fabric of a wind break and shifted his features to blend in with with the surrounding projections. It was a sloppy job without a mirror to check the fine details (hair - head, face, body - shading through to deepest brown like turning down the brightness on an image, skin - sallower to start with, the trick to not looking like he had a bad tan, then richer to a burnished bronze, eyes - let the black of his pupils spread like ink across the too pale iris to muddy them. Rather how he imagined he might have looked if an accident of history had led to his father coming back from the middle east with a child rather than an unfortunate bout of malaria or had sold his mother for a string of camels as he had once, jokingly, claimed to have considered). Eames knew the feel and weight of a thawb from his own travels within the fertile crescent and drew the weave of those memories around him until the material settled, cool and easy, against his skin. With a smile he rearranged his shemagh into the style favoured by the young and cocky and stepped out into the bustle of the camp.

Everything seemed normal; children running around laughing and playing, men and women doing their chores, making nicknacks and baubles for sale or just socialising with their friends. Nothing, at least, that would suggest some kind of mental aberration. Mark was easy enough to find - sharing tea in the shade of the main tent with the elders of the tribe. His pale ghost of a projection hovered at his shoulder like a malignant growth. Brilliant, Eames thought sourly, just brilliant.

It was disconcerting how he could feel the slate-blue eyes on him as he walked forward when everyone, and everything, else was ignoring him.

He got as far as "Sir Mark..?" before the projection began to move forward threateningly. Eames backed up a few paces, flashing back to an unfortunate incident that had never officially happened as the projection pulled a very sharp looking sword from his belt. He'd shish kebab-ed his arm once while disarming a machete-wielding maniac (because, yes, you could trap a blade between your ulna and radius and then use the leverage of the bone to twist the blade away from your opponent in the name of not being decapitated but it was not recommended even as a last resort) and had no intention of doing it again, even in a dream. Pain was still fucking pain. There was, however, one definite advantage to this particular scenario. With a prayer of thanks to Harrison Ford's piles Eames pulled out a gun he hadn't had a second before and shot the projection before it could get any closer to him. In the five meters he was able to run before he was ripped apart by the furious mob of Mark's other projections he actually felt rather pleased with himself. He also made a mental note not do that again.

When Mark woke, pale and sweating, Eames called a halt for the day and sent him home to do some nice relaxing paper work and have a good stiff drink. Eames rather thought he had earned himself the latter as well.

The next day he conclusively proved it was not his forging that the blond projection was reacting to.

The next week he made it to the intended end of the dream twice - but only because he hadn't gone near Mark at all either time. They started to cover some basic theory but Eames doubted it made much sense without the practical experience to back it up.

The projection killed him fifteen times (and in ten different forms; one of them his, six of them female) before Eames admitted that he needed help.

~~~~

Dom Cobb would not normally be Eames' first port of call for... pretty much anything. Maybe way-back-when before Dom proved that the phrase 'better half' hadn't been a joke. Back then he and his wife had been two of the leading lights of licensed dreamsharing. Back then they had scared Eames silly with their fearless (he'd said reckless, he'd always said reckless) willingness to discover the boundaries of the possible by piling one impossibility on another until chance, or natural law or an outside force blew their card house down. Eames wasn't religious, even by the English definition, but he thought that there was a story about that. Something to do with Babel.

Eames was, however, practical and more than willing to take advantage of the knowledge gained by other peoples' mistakes. He thought about that as he dialled the numbers he had never thought he would need again. It still wasn't his first choice, but if anyone knew about rogue projections... The dial tone clicked into silence.

"Dom?" he asked (friendly, unintimidating - just two old acquaintances catching up).

There was a pause from the other end of the phone and then a faint voice could clearly be heard calling 'Daddy...'

Not Cobb then. Eames waited, idly categorising the noises he could hear filtering through the connection. The sounds of domestication that he only knew from imitation.

"... man on the telephone." He could hear the small piping voice through the open line (male, 4 - 5 years old, wants to be grown up like the people around him. Probably James).

Cobb's voice, lower and quieter, "They didn't say who it was?"

"He had a funny voice," James said helpfully. Eames didn't bother to smother his smile.

"Who is this?" Cobb's voice sounded faintly suspicious as he picked up.

"Eames." The smile is still audible in his voice but there was nothing wrong with that. He knew it made him sound more affable. Or fucking scary. Depending on the situation - it could go both ways. Or so he had been told.

There was a pause then, just the sound of breathing heavy enough on the line that he was almost tempted to make a joke about it not being that type of call. He waited - Cobb hadn't hung up which was a good start. Eames knew Cobb was more of a hard pitch kind of guy (eight times out of ten - it was an extractor thing although that was more likely effect rather than cause) which was why his plan was to go for the soft sell. In that thirty seconds of silence he had gained Cobb's curiosity far more effectively that if he'd jumped straight in and talked fast.

"Eames," Cobb said carefully, "I'm out."

As if Eames would be jumping at the chance to work with him again. "Good," Eames agreed shortly. "I'm sure the kidlets are overjoyed to have daddy home. I'm just looking for some information." Cobb's sharp breath would grow into a 'no' if Eames let it so he didn't. "I have a job, totally above board, that I could use some advice on."

"I really don't think..." He was wavering, Eames could hear it in his voice. Offer an extractor a safe to crack and an academic the chance to show off their knowledge... and Cobb had been an academic until he slipped into a less euphemistically cut-throat method of getting funding.

"It's a security gig," Eames assured him and wavered for a moment over revealing that it was a government job. "Client on the up and up." Well, as much as any politician. "Employer picking up the tab."

"So what's the problem?"

This time Eames didn't let any the smallest hint of amusement distort his tone. "The client has a rogue projection."

There was no answer except the faint sound of two children scampering in the background. "Come on Cobb," Eames pushed, "You owe me this much for the shit you pulled."

As a rule Eames didn't hold grudges; he worked in a business where a certain amount of double-dealing and divergent interests came with the territory so he either got even or let things go. That didn't mean, however, that a little tit for tat wasn't the order of the day. Unless you were seriously taking a guy down then a certain amount of apology was expected for screwing a colleague over. Cobb may have been out, but he had been in the game long enough to know what was expected of him - even if Eames couldn't blacken his name in retaliation if he refused.

"Fine," Cobbs response when it came was clipped and unhappy. Eames figured he'd get over it - or he wouldn't, it didn't really matter either way. "I'll send you something that can help."

The click of disconnection cut off any further comment he might have made. Eames sighed.

"You want this done right," Eames said conversationally to the ceiling, "then this is how it is going down."

Twenty-four hours later Arthur was standing on his doorstep looking less than amused. At least until Eames explained. Then he laughed. A lot.


	2. Chapter 2

> _If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,  
>  But make allowance for their doubting too..._

~~~~

Arthur gave Eames a suspicious look when there was a security pass waiting for him at the nondescript office block that their paymasters had decreed was an appropriate (safe) place to drug an active member of parliament. He didn't, however, comment. Eames, as he always did, flirted shamelessly during the pat-down (1:20 - get groped, 1:4 - less thorough search, 7:10 - no effect). And then, because it amused him, flirted even more shamelessly while Arthur philosophically submitted to his examination. He'd tipped Arthur the wink about the search. He felt he was due some amusement for his good behaviour. For some reason, Robbie (30s, ex-Navy, straight, first marriage failed after his wife couldn't cope with the absences, second wife he met overseas - going well despite family 'concern') who was doing the checks that day, seemed more embarrassed by Eames's comments on his (completely professional) touching of Eames's colleague than of Eames himself. This observation was noted and added to the vast mental database of human reactions that Eames habitually kept.

His good humour at the whole performance lasted even when they found that their practice room was devoid of any sign of their client. The room that they used was nice enough, nicer that the succession of abandoned warehouses that less legal jobs tended to manifest. And it came with access to a small kitchen which held the wherewithal for tea and coffee. Taking advantage of the delay Eames gave Arthur the short tour beginning with the kettle and ending with the fridge. Although Eames could, and would, drink whatever was available and had suspicions about Arthur and herbal teas, both men tended to live up to their national stereotypes when it came to default selection.

They didn't exchange small talk when they returned to the room, just sat and and sipped their drinks until boredom drove Eames to ball up a piece of paper and lob it at Arthur's head. It didn't hit its intended target. Arthur gave him a disapproving look but tossed it back. Eames grinned and returned it a little faster. From there it quickly degenerated into a lazy but competitive game of keep-it-up.

Mark was forty minutes late and very apologetic. Normally Eames would have cut up on principle but he could see the dark circles under Mark's eyes and the tired sag of his skin. Those weren't, in his experience, the signs of someone dicking him around.

"Bad night?" Eames asked solicitously (3...no...6:10 - family, 2:10 - political, 1:10 - scandal, 1:10 - other).

"Azzam had nightmares," Mark said with a sigh.

Azzam Sinclair: mother killed in an attack by insurgents when he was a child, taken in and then adopted by Mark after the suspicious death (unsolved) of his father. Yes, Eames thought, that sounded about right. Normally he would have expected Mark to have quizzed him on the possible therapeutic uses of lucid dreaming (over-hyped to get funding, results dubious, definitely not recommended for minors) but the relative trauma of his introduction thus far had nixed that conversation. Every cloud and all that. Eames nodded and made an understanding noise, underscoring it with a distracted rub at his upper thigh where a purely hypothetical bullet could conceivably have given him a hypothetical leg wound in an equally hypothetical traumatic incident which modesty prevented him from elaborating on. He caught the glint of amusement in Arthur's eyes and just knew that Arthur was going to make a point of shooting him in the leg sometime in the near future. Time to move things along.

"Mark - this is a colleague of mine. Arthur - Sir Mark Brydon."

Arthur melted smoothly into focus, all professional respectability (false) and efficient reliability (true). Eames admired a good sales pitch and Arthur knew how to make it work.

"Sir Mark," Arthur said, blatantly ignoring Eames, and his vulgar familiarity, as the traditional handshake was dispensed with.

"Just Mark," the man demurred. "There doesn't seem much point in standing on ceremony when we are going to be in each other's heads."

Arthur gave him a nod, clearly taking him at his word and making note. Eames privately suspected that Arthur had been one of the people behind the anonymous treatise, 'Etiquette for the Sanctioned (and Un-sanctioned) Lucid Dream Professional', which had done the rounds five years before to much debate. He was also pretty sure that it had been a spoof. He still made the effort to break as many of the rules as prudently possible in Arthur's presence. Just in case it wasn't.

"Mr Eames," Arthur lied smoothly, "asked me to sit in on a few of your sessions as subconscious security is one of my specialities. I understand you have had an interesting start."

Mark chuckled. "Interesting is probably a good word for it. I'm still hazy on the details though. I'm not having much luck with the whole recall bit."

Arthur smiled. "That can happen, even with uninterrupted dreams it can take years to perfect memorisation - especially details. You should take it as a good sign that you're kicking Eames out so quickly."

Eames resisted the urge to roll his eyes behind Arthur's head and just gave thanks for the fact that, whatever else might be said about him, Arthur was the type of person who would back a colleague's play rather than land him in it (see Cobb, Dom - partnership therewith).

"So are you ready to go under and let me see what you've got?" Arthur asked.

Mark looked at Eames who did his best to look reassuring. "It'd be good for you to get experience with a few different dreamers," he explained, "get an idea about how different it can feel based on who's hosting."

"So, Arthur will be the dreamer," Mark recited confidently. "Which of us will be the subject?"

"You this time." Eames told him. "I'll stay topside. Let you both get a feel for each other this morning. Then we'll see about some group excursions."

"Then let's go," Mark agreed. He was game, Eames would give him that. He'd met people who had been put off lucid dreaming for life with much less of a shaky start than Mark was getting. It didn't matter that he couldn't consciously remember - it had been his subconscious that had been chewing Eames into little pieces and spitting him back out for the last fortnight and Eames prided himself that, at the very least, he left a bad taste.

Arthur was already preparing his IV so Eames got to work on Mark's line, hiding his grin. He gave Arthur 30 seconds real time. Possibly the logic of his letting Arthur go in alone might have had something to do with not wanting Arthur to get to watch his arse get handed to him by one annoying, smartly dressed, blond projection. Possibly it was the hope that the shared sartorial excellence would project a sense of familiarity and therefore acceptance. Possibly he just wanted some other bugger to get shot for a change before he was developed an irrational aversion to good looking men in suits (which would be a crime if he didn't nip that little psychosis in the bud). Such are the lies we tell ourselves and others.

"Ready?" Eames asked, hand hovering over the PASIV button. He got nods from both men. "Right, five minutes..." he hit the switch, "are go."

The sound of the traffic outside slowly permeated the room, the omnipresent grumble damped by height and double-glazing to a low hum. A car horn marked the nineteenth second - dull and muffled in its indignation. Eames hummed to himself and waited, counting the time down between the occasional shuffle of footsteps and the even rarer murmur of voices through the door. At two minutes he took a seat, watching for any twitch or quiver with sharp eyes. At four minutes he tapped his tongue against his teeth and relaxed.

The timer flicked to zero. There was a heartbeat's pause, then Arthur's eyes were open and staring straight at Eames. He blinked a few times, the only sign that he was re-orientating himself to reality.

"It's not yours," was the first thing he said. Eames nodded with all due gravitas and did his best to look appropriately vindicated. From the irritated frown he got in return Arthur didn't believe a second of it.

Eames gave him a more honest shrug. Sure, the projection had looked vaguely familiar (perception was a fascinating thing) but it hadn't occurred to him to wonder if it was his rather than Mark's. Forgers had their own ways of going mad, ones Eames preferred not to dwell on (speak of the Devil, and he will appear), but which did not typically include random, stray, murderous projections. Much more interesting was how Arthur had defeated the rogue without incurring the wrath of the rest of Mark's projections. The Arthur who was gently easing out his IV was the Arthur who woke up after a milk run not the Arthur who woke with the confused adrenaline spike of a fight sharpening his mind.

Mark came to more slowly, a little groggy but more swiftly alert every time he went under. Eames grabbed one of the packs of steralised gauze and a plaster and went to help him disconnect himself.

"You know what comes next," Eames said with a light smile as he slipped the needle out and applied pressure. "So how much do you reckon you remember?"

Mark looked at him and Eames could see the bright and terrible knowledge of new worlds shining behind his eyes. It was the look that he had been waiting to see since they had started working together.

"It's a bit blurry," Mark admitted as he took over holding the gauze so Eames could open the plaster. "But..." He looked at Arthur "Was that Angkor Wat?"

Eames looked at Arthur as well, one eyebrow raised.

"Not quite," Arthur said modestly. "As I'm sure Eames already explained - it's dangerous to copy memories too closely. That can be one clue that you are in a dream: things are just a little bit off. But the temple was based on Angkor - with a few other bits of Khmer classical style architecture thrown in."

"You designed it?"

Arthur shook his head. "I worked closely with the architect on that one though. It's a favourite."

Eames blinked and stood up. "On the subject of which," he muttered and, before either of the others could say anything, stuck his head out of the door. "Oi," he called.

He waited. Robbie rounded the corner, staring at him, surprised.

"Right," Eames told him flatly. "We'll need to start taking the PASIV home for prep." Ignoring the gathering clouds of objection on the other man's face he continued, "Pass the message upstairs and when they have finished humming and hawing let us know. And feel free to tell them that I pointed out I didn't actually _need_ to ask."

The Navy had trained Robbie too well for him to splutter but Eames could almost feel his devout wish that Eames would get slapped down and slapped down hard. Eames gave him his most condescending smile and ducked back into the room.

"That's that settled," he said happily. "Now where were we?"

~~~~

Eames waited until they'd taken a break for lunch, wandering with Arthur along the South Bank, sandwiches in hand, before he asked, "Alright. How did you do it?"

Arthur, the bastard, smirked.

"Yes, very funny," Eames said dryly, "I'm suitably impressed with your genius. Now if you could just let us mere mortals in on the trick..."

"There isn't a trick, Eames," Arthur corrected in the tone of condescending pedantry that he had perfected over the years of their acquaintance just for, so far as Eames had been able to tell, use when talking to him, "I just a drew a logical conclusion to the available evidence and acted accordingly."

Eames had always chosen to be flattered by the effort and typically resolved to give Arthur as much opportunity to use it as possible. It was only polite, after all. Just then, however, he'd have rather skipped the pleasantries.

"By which you mean?" he prompted. There was a point and Eames was pretty sure that Arthur was going to get to it sooner rather than later, he was like that. Probably a lot sooner if Eames didn't engage in a game of twenty questions but he couldn't stop himself.

Arthur frowned at him. The type of frown that suggested that he wasn't playing and that Eames was being even more dense than normal. It was a familiar expression, if unhelpful. "Think about it" Arthur said, "every time you got knocked back you came up with more and more inventive ways to get around the problem. And every time you got close to approaching Mark you got shot down."

"And instead?" He might possibly have waited until just after Arthur took a bite of sandwich to ask that.

Arthur looked at him, serious as a gut-shot, not even rolling his eyes or looking irritated as he chewed steadily before shallowing. "I didn't approach Mark - I approached the projection."

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Eames's kept talking even as his mind spun with the implications, "could you repeat that? I thought you just said that the logical course of action was to play into the delusion? I'm not arguing with you - it worked and one doesn't argue with success but, honestly, the logic escapes me."

Arthur let out a soft huff of amusement. "And here I thought you had an imagination." Eames glared at him but didn't interrupt. "For a second take the whole dreaming-aspect out of the equation. If what you saw was occurring out here - how would you read the situation?"

"Bodyguard," Eames said immediately. Oh yes, he could see what Arthur was getting at, could follow the fantastical shapes and twists of it. "Or at least security. He's been in the diplomatic service for a long time and in some pretty dicey places..."

"So his subconscious is so used to his having a minder that it creates him one," Arthur finished for him.

Eames hummed thoughtfully. "It makes sense." And it did in a horrible way. The type of way that saw the distorted shades of the dead lived on in unbalanced minds, that could fill the psyche with the unanswerable cries of children that never existed, the pain of long-healed comrades or the certain and abiding affections of lost loves. It really was a bloody confusing place, the human subconscious - it was part of what made it such a fascinating challenge. "You seen something like this before?" Because the jibe about having imagination had stung and his ego much preferred the idea that Arthur knew of a prior example about which Eames was unaware.

"Something similar," Arthur admitted, possibly following Eames's train of thought. "Maybe twice... one and a half times..."

Eames raised his eyebrows in pointed question.

Arthur shrugged. "Overprotective mother."

"And she only rated a half?"

"She insisted on feeding me," said Arthur flatly. "It was hardly a sound defensive strategy."

Eames couldn't have stopped the laugh that bubbled out of him, the half-concealed look of disgusted annoyance on Arthur's face was just too beautiful and perfect.

"Did she make you eat your greens?" Eames asked with all the sympathy he could muster (none) between the gasping chuckles. "Was there broccoli?"

Arthur focussed on his sandwich and refused to respond.

"The sacrifices," Eames drew a deep breath and forced himself back under control, "we're forced to make! The indignities that we endure..." Arthur's expression grew stonier. "Just tell me one thing," Eames continued with a wheeze, "did she at least cut the crusts of the sandwiches for you?"

And Arthur cracked, shaking his head in disbelief as he grinned and swatted Eames lightly on the arm.

"Really," Eames reassured him earnestly, "I'm sure it was very disturbing."

Arthur polished off the last corner of his lunch and brushed the crumbs from his hands. "I think this line of discussion says far more about your childhood than mine," he pointed out easily.

"Arthur," Eames exclaimed, feigning shock, "you had a childhood?"

This time Arthur did shoot him a look of irritation (sore point noted). "So did you want to discuss your case of did you just want to prove how much of a asshole you can be?"

"Tempting as that might be." Eames's smile suggested unvoiced apology; an invitation for Arthur to believe that the joke was on Eames. It hadn't worked yet but he kept trying. "So we have a situation where anyone who tries to approach Mark without getting the nod is automatically flagged as suspect but if you follow the expected procedure, that is, get security to vet you first, then you are good to go. So if we go down and you introduce me to your new imaginary friend..."

"And we hope he doesn't take against you due to all the other times he's killed you," Arthur pointed out with slightly more vicious humour than Eames would have liked (deserved as it might have been).

"There is that," he agreed equitably.

"A problem for tomorrow," Arthur offered with something that might have been a peaceable overture "If we take him through some theory during the session after lunch that will give us a chance to refine our approach this evening now that we have a little more evidence to work with." He paused (a three wrinkle problem, intriguing rather than worrisome). "It would be useful to know if anyone else has dealt with similar phenomenon but I don't want to tip our hand..." he mused "I'll see what I can scare up without it being associated with either of us."

"Alright, I'm impressed," Eames admitted. It was a small concession to the unspoken entente.

"My life is complete," Arthur intoned dryly but Eames thought that his eyes were laughing, that he understood that Eames had meant what he said.

Still, it was too tempting to fall into their normal banter, to pout and turn sorrowful, sympathetic eyes to Arthur and say, "and you haven't even had the opportunity to experience me in the sack," even as he made and discarded plans and theories.

His play-acting was rewarded with a disdainful look (almost convincing) and a dry-cleaned crease of a smile. "For which I am sure we are all thankful."

"It's true," Eames put his hand to his breast, his half-eaten and slightly drooping BLT adding its own pathos to the scene. "Your subsequent inability to continue living without the constant presence of my cock would be a tragedy for the entire lucid dreaming community - although of course, as a service to the profession, one would do one's best... but to deprive the world completely of my other skills would be unthinkable. I know you would do your best to cope, darling..."

Arthur choked, because really he should have known better than to take a drink while Eames was talking. "You really are a complete ass," he gasped, thwacking Eames (hard this time) on the upper arm with the back of one flailing hand.

"Not quite complete," Eames conceded, "but I am working on it. On the subject of which - it's for the government so the pay is peanuts and good will... but if you wanted to stick around for the hell of it then I'm sure we could come to some arrangement about the fee."

Because Arthur liked the puzzle and the challenge as much as Eames did and, for all their disagreements (real and less so), Eames couldn't think of many other people he would trust at his back in a tight situation. For a supposedly easy job this one had all the hallmarks of turning into a total bitch. If he hadn't known that certain parties would make his life a bloody nightmare if he bailed, then his bags would be packed and he would be on his way to Heathrow and the first flight to Somewhere-Else via Anywhere-But-Here.

Arthur didn't give much away in either tone or expression as he said, "You make it sound so tempting."

Eames shrugged. "Think it over," he offered mildly. If Arthur did he did, if he didn't then he didn't. Unlike himself, Arthur didn't have any ties to keep him there and he had dealt with more than his share of strange mental emanations sticking around with Cobb for as long as he had. "Unless you have somewhere else you need to be."

"Not at the moment," Arthur admitted after a moment's silence, his expression turned slightly mocking. "I didn't think your problem would be so easy to solve."

That was unexpected. And rather touching.

"You scheduled time for me!" Eames exclaimed, smothering any honest reaction with over-effusive delight.

"Don't push it, Mr Eames," Arthur warned. "We should be getting back," he nodded over to a nondescript man who was checking his phone, "I think our minders are beginning to get twitchy."

Eames hid his smile behind the last traces of bloomer, bacon and lettuce (not enough tomato to be truly great). They walked back together in silence.

~~~~

It wasn't that Eames expected Arthur to do all the work (although he wouldn't have actively objected) - it was just that it was part of a pointman's job to gather information, identify the essentials and pass that knowledge on to the rest of the team. There wasn't really that much difference between that and teaching the more theoretical side of lucid dreaming. Sure, during an extraction (rarely a one-man job) the rest of them had to report back on their tasks (homework assignments) and the extractor (head master) was the one who made the final call and set the tasks (syllabus) but it was the pointman who, traditionally, laid everything out and then poked holes in (marked) their work. Which, although he would deny it if asked, was why Eames always felt the need to regress back to an approximation of naughty schoolboy-hood when in such situations (just because he'd missed his chance first time 'round was no reason to miss out completely). He'd always thought that Arthur would have made a good teacher of the old fusty, disciplinarian type. Something suitably tweedy like geography or history with lots of facts to memorise and corral into theories. Or the type of English teacher who was obsessed with the grammatical intricacies and read great literature for pleasure while failing to grasp why everyone else found joy in books far removed from the literati recommended list. He'd probably be the cause of more than a few confused, adolescent wet dreams although the less said about that the better.

Eames also, and this was something else he would fervently deny if questioned, rather liked listening to Arthur play teacher. There were times when clear, concise and tediously to the point were skills to be appreciated. And, maybe, yes, there was an element of not working when you didn't have to. In that spirit Eames let his fingers wrap comfortingly around his mug and slouched back to better enjoy the reality of the tea-warmed ceramic and coolness of Arthurs's voice.

"You think you are in a dream," Arthur asked Mark, gesturing incongruously with a bourbon biscuit, "what do you do?"

Mark's brows furrowed in concentration, his own tea temporarily abandoned on the table beside him, and Eames added a footnote to his mental model (you never knew when having a public figure's mannerisms memorised could be useful).

"Wake myself up," Mark answered slowly. "You die in a dream - you wake up."

Eames can see Arthur's brief hesitation in the twitch of his fingers. He's one of the good ones, Eames considered telling him (true, as far as he could tell). We are getting well paid for this (false). He waited instead, curious to see what Arthur would do.

"Eames's example not withstanding," Arthur said with what Eames felt was a little too much smugness. To any observer he expected that Arthur's glance in his direction would be interpreted as observation of the dig's reception. It was a warning, Arthur had made his decision and if Eames wanted to interrupt then this was his opportunity and excuse. He took a deliberate sip of his tea and let Arthur continue, "There are two possible problems with that. Some teams," and the caustic emphasis left no doubt as to his low opinion of the teams in question, "use sedation - it makes the dreams more stable which can be important if the dreamer is inexperienced or a bit shaky. Or, more dangerously, if they want to add more than one layer to the dream. In small doses it's a crutch, but add a strong sedative and you risk death in the dream dropping you deeper into your subconscious rather than waking you up."

Mark frowned. "And I take it that that is not good?"

"You run the risk of getting trapped," Arthur confirmed, "but more than that, even if you do get out, some people never recover from the experience."

Nicely sidestepping the whats and whys, Eames thought. Not that anyone knew for sure and those who had gone down into limbo were universally, and unhelpfully, reluctant to discuss their experiences. Everyone had theories of course. Eames's personal theory was that he was very happy not knowing, thanks all the same.

"So the small side effect of possible coma or insanity," Mark said dryly. "And the other problem?"

Arthur looked across at Eames and this time Eames took his cue. "You might not actually be asleep."

There was silence as they all contemplated that.

"Yes," Mark said slowly, "I can see how that might be an issue. I take it that these aren't hypothetical situations?"

Back in the early days, before anyone had really understood the risks of lucid dreaming, he'd picked Arthur's pocket - that had led to his introduction to the idea of totems (not that everyone had called them that back then, then they had just been curiosities that behaved differently in dreams to reality which some people had started carrying for luck) and a large amount of animosity on Arthur's part. It was one reason Eames changed totems with every job - there were always people like him around. He did have a backup in a locked security box under an identity only ever used for that purpose but he had never been desperate enough to need to check it (the box was empty - hard to fake that in a dream when the mind would automatically insert something). The hard edge of his current selection dug into his thigh through the thin material of his trouser pocket, reassuring and irritating. It was a slight risk not to get Mark to select his own totem but the chance he would need one as a non-regular dreamer was outweighed by the clarity of the tell that having one created.

"There have been rumours," Arthur confirmed.

"By which," Eames interrupted, "he means that there have been a small number of extremely suspicious suicides which nobody really believes are suicides despite all the evidence pointing to the wounds being self-inflicted and no hint of coercion. And every one of them was strongly suspected of being militarised."

"So," Mark looked between them, "what's the alternative?"

"Get the bastards before they get you," Eames suggested. "You take out the dreamer and the whole thing falls apart. And if you get the extractor first then at least he's not rummaging around in your brain while you do it."

Arthur nodded.

"And if it isn't a dream?"

Arthur shrugged. "A murder change is better than being dead."

"And explaining that it was a dream and that the dead person was trying to steal thoughts out of your head is probably a good start towards a diminished responsibility plea." Eames added cheerfully.

Mark looked appalled. "Your answer is a killing spree?"

"Just a small one," Eames held one hand away from his cup, thumb and first finger carefully held an inch apart. "But it won't be just you. As soon as you get suspicious your projections, as representations of your mind, will start getting suspicious as well. They act like an immune response - trying to find and remove any intruders."

"As Eames has so ably demonstrated," Arthur noted. "Repeatedly."

"Yes, thank you, Arthur," Eames sing-songed. "But getting back to the point..."

"Oh," the helpful innocence in Arthur's tone was almost believable, "I thought that was the point."

Eames glared at him as Mark carefully covered his smile behind a cough.

"The point being," Eames repeated firmly, "that your projections will regard foreign intelligences as invaders - especially whoever is acting as the dreamer - and go after them. Over the next few weeks we'll work on boosting that response to make it more effective."

"Guns," Arthur said, deadpan. He looked at Eames. "Big guns," he amended.

"Wait a minute," Mark cut in. "We're still talking about a violent response."

"Although if everyone around you is suddenly brandishing rocket launchers it's a fairly good indication that you are in a dream," Eames argued. "Unless politics is a lot rougher than Prime Minister's Question Time makes it look."

"You could fake it." Arthur noted with dreary emphasis.

Eames rolled his eyes. "Well, yes, you could but..."

"I don't think anyone is going to argue that a murder charge isn't better than being dead," Mark said, "but we aren't talking about being dead, we are talking about potentially sensitive information being stolen. If you want to get rid of a public figure then discrediting them with a murder charge would be just as effective as whatever you can find in their head."

"We're not saying that it doesn't happen," Arthur said carefully, "but if someone has gone to the trouble of sending a team into your head it's most likely to be for something significant. If all they wanted was to discredit you, well, there are easier ways to do it. It's a decision you have to make: are the contents of your head worth risking killing for."

Mark paled very slightly (1:25 - squeamishness, 1:100 - other, 19:20 - jackpot!).

"There are a few other little tricks we can teach you," Eames offered, "give you more of a chance of leaving the whole death and destruction thing to the projections if you don't want to risk getting stuck in right away. But you need to be psychologically ready to step up to the crease because it's your subconscious and instinct counts for a lot but not everything. If you aren't sure about defending yourself or subconsciously think it would be better for anyone breaking into your mind to succeed... then that hesitation is going to be reflected in the way your projections respond."

"It all seems very..."

The polite cough of a knock silenced the debate immediately.

"If we are very lucky..." Eames said with a crocodile smile, "that's Santa and he's brought a present."

"And if we aren't," Arthur told Mark drifting to the side and out of immediate line of sight of the door, "get behind Eames."

Mark looked like he wanted to object but said nothing, moving back to give them room. That was one advantage, Eames thought, of working with diplomats whose careers had seen them in a lot of chancy areas - they could pull expressions of stubborn nobility all they liked if it would make them feel better but they ducked when their minders said 'get down'. Eames took one last look around (exits identified, cover mapped, civilian located, Arthur in place...) before saying 'come' in a clear, bored, voice.

Santa had been working on his figure. And had toned down the suit from fuck-me red with trimmings to something sober and purely Whitehall. But it was the familiar face that caused the final pieces to click together in Eames's head with finality of a steel trap. Eames didn't like surprises. He especially didn't like surprises that could calculatedly make nice with a local warlord knowing that a raid on his compound had been green lit for later that day.

"Why, hello, sweetheart!" Eames smirked, breezily obnoxious (don't show weakness, don't show doubt, if they don't know you're bluffing then they can't call you on it).

Everyone stared at him except for the new arrival who gave a slight smile and said "Hello, darling. Should have known it was you causing trouble."

Should have, could have. Eames gave his brightest, most insincere, not-buying-it-for-a-moment grin. Almost certainly did. Bastard. He heard a soft, "Nicholas?" from Mark's direction and momentarily ignored it.

"I knew I recognised that bloody projection from somewhere." He muttered ruefully as they clasped hands. "Although you've changed a bit since I saw you last."

"For the better I hope." Brocklehurst's voice hadn't aged even if the rest of him had - the same educated, working class it had always been, sliding up and down the scale from rough trade to refined privilege depending on need and mood. Matured maybe - a little deeper, a little more refined. Still the same soft growl which smoothed to a purr, "I'm flattered you remembered."

_A cloud of butterflies bloomed from the ground, silent and beautiful. Until you looked down and saw the twisted shapes that they had been feeding on. Saw the splashes of colour from the women's scarves, the splashes of shadow where the blood had dried._

_The buzz of the ever industrious flies was indistinguishable from the buzzing in his ears. Behind him someone was swearing, Scots' burr slurring the words into even more meaningless sounds._

_Some of the heaps were so small. So very, very small._

"Some things you don't forget," Eames said quietly. Their gazes locked for a moment and Brocklehurst nodded, as sombre as his suit. The moment passed and they both turned smiling eyes (false) onto their audience.

"I take it you two have met." Mark's dry tones, of course. Did Arthur already know or was he biding his time until he could grill Eames in private? Eames didn't even want to think about those odds.

With no trace of embarrassment Brocklehurst murmured, "Old army acquaintances," as if that explained everything, followed by a mellow and unrepentant, "Hello Mark". The warmth of their handshake looked real enough.

"I haven't seen you since you left Washington," Mark chided.

Brocklehurst's shrug was a beautiful display of disarming avoidance in Eames expert opinion. And then it was his turn to play at delicacy. "Arthur," he began "This is..." he trailed off, politely letting Brocklehurst introduce himself as he chose.

"Nicholas Brocklehurst." He held out his hand for Arthur to take, a polite clasp of strangers so subtly different than what he had shared with Mark. As if Eames needed further proof when Mark's projection of "Nicholas" (the older Brocklehurst rather than the young man Eames had known) had been making Eames's life difficult since he got here. It was almost a relief that Brocklehurst now had the opportunity to do it in person. Not that Arthur was likely to see it that way.

Niceties dealt with Brocklehurst turned back to Eames, backing up just enough to make sure Arthur was included as he said "I believe there was a request for permission to sign out a PASIV?"

The likelihood of it being a social call had been low.

"Why don't we go and make some tea?" Eames suggested brightly. From the look Arthur gave him his suggestion was placing in the top ten 'most obvious gambits ever' (and given how long Arthur had worked with Cobb that was some stiff competition) but this was not a conversation anyone wanted to have in front of Mark.

"You still take milk and sugar, Mark?" Brocklehurst asked with a reassuring smile.

"Just milk these days," Mark said, "trying to set a good example."

Brocklehurst chuckled.

"Think about what we were discussing," Arthur instructed, "we'll be right back."

They didn't speak until they were ensconced in the kitchen, door firmly closed. The small room was even smaller with the three of them facing off across the three foot galley.

"So just how qualified is the 'yes'," Eames said bluntly. "Because it better be a yes."

"We can't let you take the PASIV that's being used in the training. Security," Brocklehurst looked between them, "I'm sure you understand. But we might be able to arrange for a second PASIV that you can use for lesson preparation." Eames let out the breath he definitely hadn't been holding. Now was the time to be cocky; he raised a questioning eyebrow at Brocklehurst. "I've explained to upstairs that, especially in the later stages of militarisarion, more complex scenarios are needed and these require practice," Brocklehurst admitted.

That was... interesting.

Arthur's brow had crinkled into a worried corrugation that Eames privately (very, very privately given what he did for a living) thought was adorable. "What's the price?"

Brocklehurst' gaze dropped for a moment, and when he raised his head again there was a definite hint of amusement raising the corners of his mouth. "Me," he said.

"You'd come down with us?" Arthur was frowning openly, more in thought than anger Eames decided. For someone in his line of work he really had a dreadful poker face. Most of the time anyway, Eames had played him at poker and wasn't planning to repeat the experience (it was just boring when you were both counting cards - like playing naughts-and-crosses once you knew the trick).

"As an observer," Brocklehurst assured them. "nothing more. Your pay remains unchanged, split however the two of you have agreed."

"We haven't yet," Arthur noted. "We also normally charge for extra bodies."

Eames blessed his mercenary little heart.

"Think of the charge being offset against the rent of the PASIV," Brocklehurst suggested smoothly. "And the insurance fee."

Eames looked across at Arthur who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "Okay," he said. "But we don't take tourists."

Brocklehurst smiled, thin and sharp, "Then I'll just have to do my bit."

As easy as quicksand.

"On the subject of which," Eames muttered, "your boy seems to have cold feet about the whole militarisation aspect. If he isn't ready to shoot-to-kill the bad guys if they come calling then his projections won't either."

"I'll talk to him," Brocklehurst promised.

That was clearly the best that they were going to get. Eames nodded to himself. "Then we're done," he said. "Good to have you aboard, you old bugger."

Brocklehurst smiled, eyes creasing. His body was solid and strong (a hint of paunch, at his age understandable) against Eames, their hands slapping each other on the back (Eames was deliberately a touch-y person - it's a lot easier to pick someone's pockets if you have a reputation for being physically affectionate. Arthur was more restrained in his personal contact - possibly because he knew people like Eames). Arthur looked at them as if they were both insane. Eames wasn't about to deny that lunacy was a possibility (although following Cobb all over the fucking map..? That's all Eames was saying).

"Try not to fuck us over too badly," Eames said as he stepped back.

Brocklehurst didn't bother with a denial, just the officially approved "I'm just here to keep an eye on our investment." If he was talking about the multimillion pound machine he'd brokered their access to then Eames would pay his bar tab. All of them. "I'll arrange for the PASIV to be delivered. It should be waiting for you when you get back this evening."

He let himself out of the room and into the corridor, just out of immediate range but still in eye-line, and pulled out a phone (the one from his inside-right jacket pocket rather than the one on his left side). Arthur gave Eames a significant look and began filling the kettle. Ah, yes, there would be words. Eames wondered how long he could put them off. And what Arthur was doing. The latter mystery was more easily solved.

Eames hitched a hip against the worktop. The laminate surface was chipped at the edges, the only reason it wasn't peeling that it was a moulded one-piece. Eames idly mapped the dips and gouges with his fingertips as he watched Arthur closely. It didn't take long to get a response. Arthur flicked the kettle on and turned to Eames, arms crossed and expression unimpressed.

"What?" he said.

Eames blinked at him innocently. "What are you doing?"

Arthur gave him a glare that said very plainly: 'don't be any stupider than you have to be'. What he actually said aloud, very slowly and very clearly, was, "I'm making the drinks."

Eames felt the bubble of laughter within him, the swell of affection that Arthur was so very literal minded. Having a sense of self preservation he kept it to himself and helped Arthur make the round of drinks.


	3. Chapter 3

> _If you can wait and not be tired by waiting..._

~~~~

The sky had clouded over since their lunchtime stroll. Not so much threatening as reminding the city that a sunny day was a privilege to be enjoyed for its ephemeral qualities as much as for the warmth and reminder of the fading summer. At least Arthur assumed there had been some kind of summer. He worked in the city a few times but for him London was mostly synonymous with Heathrow and its immediate surrounds. The weather therefore, fell into two categories - the type that caused delays to his flight and the type that didn't.

Arthur had, as matter of course, memorised the route between Eames's government-provided apartment and the government-provided offices in which they were working. It would be embarrassing to have to ask one of their government-provided minders for directions should he and Eames get separated. It was always a little hard to tell with Eames whether he had rhyme and reason behind his actions beyond his regrettable sense of humour. Or, to be more accurate, it was often a little hard to define the reason above and beyond his own amusement, although Arthur gave the man credit for having one whether it was made apparent or not. Which was why he noticed almost immediately when Eames chose to take an alternate, and presumed longer, route back to their temporary abode. He could have just been messing with their tail - it certainly wouldn't have been out of character for Eames to have taken a different route between house and office every day to do so or just from paranoia. He could even, and in his own way, have been deliberately introducing Arthur to the local area. Arthur doubted it though, if that had been the case then Eames would have garnished the journey with cutting commentary and random, and probably completely fictitious, stories about the places they passed. A quiet and thoughtful Eames was frequently indicative of trouble brewing for someone.

The Thames was that strange shade of silver-lit, khaki-blue that only water managed to achieve. The small, silt-beaches made periodically accessible by stone steps from the promenade were more taunting than appealing although one contained a lone figure skimming stones into the shipping lane. Somewhere ahead a busker played a tune that Arthur didn't recognise, the notes drifting sluggishly on the early evening air as if even they were unsure about venturing out.

"Well that was an interesting day," Arthur commented dryly. The suggestion of cold hadn't seeped through the good wool of his coat yet but he had no idea how long Eames was planning to keep them walking around and was loath to give it the opportunity even if it was more subliminal than actual. "Although you've got a good one there. Sharp."

"Sharp enough to cut all our throats if we aren't careful," Eames agreed.

If they hadn't been being watched Arthur would have stopped Eames right there and demanded an explanation. Or, more accurately, an elaboration - some things were perfectly self-explanatory after all, but details couldn't be assumed, or shouldn't be if continued good health was a concern. Which, his continued involvement in lucid dreaming aside, it was. However, since they were under observation he didn't stop, didn't even look at Eames as he said "What do you mean?"

"There's something going on," Eames muttered, "and I want to know what it is."

Well, yes. That much was blindingly obvious. Even the second, and marginally more informative, part of that statement was hardly a surprise. People without inquisitiveness never lasted long in the business and, unfortunately, Eames was one of the best. On the other hand, being unable to temper that inquisitiveness got people killed.

"Aren't we being paid to _stop_ people getting secrets out of Mark's head?" Arthur pointed out, allowing a little acid to give weight to his necessarily modulated tone.

Eames chose the most unimportant part of what Arthur had said to focus on. Contrary bastard.

"You're staying then?" His voice gave away nothing.

Arthur shrugged in return. "I've never seen you on your home ground." He looked around at the run of cookie-cut houses, each blurring into the next. Ahead on the corner a red pillar box stood guard outside a local shop accompanied by a public bin and an advertising board for a local paper. As far away as it was he could just make out a careful display of white notices in one window, complete contrast to the jumble of posters and slogans that decorated the other. Across the street a small run of commercial properties offered various services: bookmaker, hairdressers, estate agents, off-licence, kebab shop - alike in their faded signage and chipping paint. In the middle distance tall buildings, flats or offices, it was impossible to tell, rose into the sky in silent reminder that there was the rest of the city beyond this particular warren of red-grey streets - another world just a few blocks and a million miles away. "It might be interesting."

Eames did look at him then. A quick side glance, a movement of his eyes rather than his head. If Arthur had any sense he would be running the other way as fast as possible. But if he had any sense he wouldn't have stuck with Cobb as long as he had. For all his flaws, and Arthur hadn't been blind to them, Cobb had never been boring. He had learnt more, been pushed further, with Cobb than with anyone else he had worked with. His presence in London had been one last favour that Cobb had called in - the puzzle proffered as the carrot to the stick of Eames's presence. That he had solved it so quickly when Eames had struggled with it for weeks was more down to luck than Arthur would ever admit but they both knew that it was only the first level of a more complex problem many layers deep. One that grew more intriguing by the hour. Not least because this was the sort of job that he would have guessed that Eames hated - about as official as it got without being completely above board, their every move under surveillance and reported on, and then soft spoken figments of Eames's past turning up to muddy the waters further.

"I chose to believe that those are two separate and unrelated statements," Eames muttered after a moment.

Arthur might have felt a little sorry for him. Nobody liked the buried past to unbury itself in front of one's sometimes antagonistic co-workers. But it was Eames so he didn't.

"If you like," he allowed. It really didn't matter in the scheme of things. "The point still stands."

Eames humphed slightly. "We are being paid to stop _other_ people from getting secrets out of Mark's head." Which was true as far as it went - which wasn't far at all. "He was in favour with the old regime when he was in the diplomatic corps," Eames mused, "personal friends with the ex-PM and all that, rumour says he's paying his dues now he's gone into politics but that there might be a plush position waiting for him in the shadow cabinet if he plays his cards right. So are we being employed because of what he knows already or what he may know in the future? Because right now my money is on the former."

Eames never fucking learned. Maybe if his first act hadn't been to try and steal the guy's credit card details then he wouldn't have ended up in such a mess. But no, he had to demonstrate how clever he was and piss off the client's subconscious minder.

"Don't complicate things, Eames," Arthur breathed seriously, "or at least give me due warning so I can be elsewhere."

Because there were limits to his staying. He had no loyalty to the job, or to Eames on this one, and curiosity and good-will only bought so much grace. If Eames wanted to raise the stakes then he was on his own. Eames had evidently been having similar thoughts. He shook his head slightly.

"Too much risk," he said. "Especially with Brocklehurst breathing down our necks."

Arthur didn't bother to hide his interest. "Your old army buddy?" He would have been willing to put money on Eames's surprise having been genuine, but was it surprise that Nicholas was involved or surprise that he revealed himself? He didn't think Eames would deliberately set him up, but hadn't thought Cobb would set him up either - his first mistake on the Fisher job. The question was whether trusting Eames when Eames was clearly being played, and allowing it, was a mistake now.

"And apparently an old colleague of Mark's," Eames agreed, not rising to the bait. "A very interesting day," he echoed Arthur's earlier comment with sardonic amusement.

Eames wasn't that obtuse. Not unless he was doing it deliberately.

"You don't find it all just a bit too much of a coincidence?"

"No Arthur, because I am a complete idiot." There was a definite bite in the quiet words. So he hadn't known then. That made things different.

"I always suspected," Arthur said gravely.

"Ha bloody ha."

They walked along in silence, retreating to their separate mental corners. Another turning and the pedestrian street burst briefly to life with street sellers, tourist traps and bright cheerful voices. Eames led them up some stairs and onto a platform. Their official stalker hung discreetly back, giving them room but not so far that he would lose them in the first swellings of the rush hour crowd. The train was busy enough to push them into each other's personal space. Around them Evening Standards, and the occasional Metro, rustled, evening plans were discussed and the last dregs of business were dispensed with.

"So what happens next?" Arthur said at last. It was a more useful question than 'can I trust you?', which had as much point as immigration queries about terrorist intentions, and more likely to get an answer.

"Now, that, my dear Arthur," Eames's eyes were very bright in the artificial lights of the train, "is a very good question." His tongue flickered over his lips, a parody of nervousness that Arthur wasn't meant to believe but to read. "I'm inclined to wait and see what their next move is."

Was Eames asking if Arthur trusted him to run this play? Arthur rather thought he was.

"You think we'll get a visit?" He asked because he had no other way to say 'yes, I'm trusting you for now, but there will be an accounting soon' without attracting attention from everyone in range of their low voices and in the current throng that was at least three people too many.

Eames was frowning slightly, thoughtfully. "It seems likely."

Arthur nodded. "You want me to give you space?" He couldn't be clearer that that without getting it tattooed across his forehead.

"I don't know," was the slightly unexpected reply. "I'll know when I see who they send."

It was Arthur's turn to frown. "You don't think it will be Mr Brocklehurst?"

"It'll be Brocklehurst. But that still doesn't tell me who they're sending."

It took him a second to realise what Eames was implying. Fucking forgers and fucking spooks and their fucking games. They couldn't just have multiple identity papers like the rest of them - they actually had to have fucking multiple identities. It wasn't too late to leave, Arthur reminded himself. He wouldn't, they might be creeping towards his tipping point but the uniqueness of the situation was still winning out by a whisker, but it was always reassuring to know he could.

"You want to play it by ear?" he said a little incredulously. There was trust and then there was running full tilt towards the cliff edge because all the other lemmings were doing it. Even if that was a bad analogy because lemmings didn't actually do that either.

Eames twitched slightly at the rise in pitch, the higher frequency more likely to cut through the blanketing hum of noise or draw attention to them due to human conditioning even if the volume level had stayed reasonably constant.

"I know having everything planned out in excruciating detail makes you happy in your special place," Eames growled in his ear, "but without more intel we are just pratting around with our trousers down and hoping no one feels like a little target practice."

There were times when Arthur really wished he was as unimaginative as Eames liked to claim. He ignored the first part of Eames's rejoinder as beneath the need for a response.

"A mental image I didn't need, thank you very much," he said, with as much disapproval as he could manage. Yes, it was as passive-aggressive as all hell but it was the best he could manage given their current circumstances. Which Eames, the arsehole, knew very well and had probably planned. "So other than making sure we are wearing clean underwear what do you suggest we do?"

Eames looked thoughtful, planning his answer or possibly just parsing Arthur's sentence.

"Keep going for now," he said finally. "See if you can turn up anything through your contacts I haven't - go outside the flat to make contact... I'll explain later." Yes, he really would. In detail. Although at this point Arthur could make an educated guess. The possibility of beating it out of him anyway was becoming increasingly appealing. "And when we get our surprise visitor... follow my lead."

"That isn't a plan, Eames," Arthur objected, making sure to keep his voice even this time. "That's like saying the plan for tomorrow is to have the sun rise."

"Fine!" Eames huffed, warm breath tickling annoyingly at Arthur's temple. "If I think I need to spend time with Brocklehurst alone then I'll spin you some line about wanting to catch up with an old friend, have a reunion... something in that line." He was talking off the top of his head. Arthur recognised the way he spoke in fits and starts; pauses followed by a rush of words so fast that they were almost tripping over their own syllables. Arthur had yet to decide if it was a reflection of the way Eames's thought processes worked or practiced affectation intended to portray the idea that he was thinking aloud. "If I do that..." Slow. "Then whatever has been suggested, you give some excuse and make yourself scarce as quick as you can." Fast again. "I promise to fill you in on anything I find out when I get back." He made a slight humming noise in the back of his throat. "If I make noise about the two of you getting to know each other then stick to us like glue - united front all the way." Pause. And a slight smirk this time. "If I drop Cobb's name into the conversation then we're fucked and you need to get the hell out of there. If I mention Yusef then I think I'm compromised and you should take the lead. How's that for a plan?"

"Better." Arthur acknowledged. "Barely."

Eames shook his head in mock despair. "Careful Arthur, all that praise might go to my head."

The train jolted, bouncing him briefly against Eames's bulk as everyone who wasn't leaning on a solid surface took a lurch to the right.

"I'll take that under advisement," he said, voice a little stiff with embarrassment. "We certainly wouldn't want your ego to get any bigger."

Eames grinned - toothy and fake. "You say the sweetest things. Are we done? Because if not I vote we adjourn until after we've rustled up something to eat."

Much to his continued frustration, Arthur's stomach had yet to catch up with him and had been strongly reminding him that he owed it breakfast for the last few hours. He wasn't particularly given to paranoia - they were, most of the time, actually out to get him after all - but he couldn't stop himself from eyeing Eames suspiciously.

"We might as well." He wasn't about to admit any weaknesses to Eames, even hunger. "It's a waiting game at this point."

Twenty-four hours. If Eames hadn't come clean with him by then then he was on the next flight out and puzzle be damned.

"Chippy?" Eames said.

Arthur blinked at him, bemused by the sudden change of subject. "Pardon?"

"Fish and chips?" Eames expanded slowly. Looking at Arthur as if he was an idiot rather than victim to the transatlantic language barrier. Catching Arthur out seemed to cheer him up somewhat and he was almost effusive as he said, "There's a good one near the flat. Also does Chinese if you're that way inclined." The sly, teasing look was back as well. Whatever he had been brooding over was now clearly a thing of the past. Which was a shame in many ways.

"I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" The question was rhetorical but Eames's look of anticipation was answer enough. Arthur supposed he should at least be glad it wasn't Indian. Experience dictated that Eames, curries and PASIVs were not to be allowed within forty-eight hours of each other. Seventy-two if it was a strong curry or Eames was the dreamer. No one wanted a repeat of the incident in Mumbai. "Lead the way," he invited.

Eames looked down the carriage and waved vaguely towards the door. Arthur sighed. They got off at the next stop, minder trailing behind, and back onto a train going, as far as Arthur could tell, back the way they had come. Arthur, once more, considered ditching the lot of them. Twenty-four hours, he promised himself. Twenty-four.


	4. Chapter 4

> _Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies..._

~~~~

Mark would have been the first to admit that he hadn't known what to expect when he'd received the summons from the Chief Whip all those weeks before - he'd had his suspicions though. Of course, those suspicions had more to do with the how hard he had been pushing on the marriage equality issue recently so he'd been expecting something more down the line of his getting a gentlemanly talking to about not rocking the boat too hard. What he got was two very serious looking men reminding him that he had signed the official secret act and exactly what would happen to him and his family if he broke it.

Even then his assumption had been that it was the Tyrgyzstan business coming up again.

He'd been wrong.

Looking back a month on from that initial meeting he wasn't sure he wouldn't have preferred to have been right.

Technology that allowed you to enter people's dreams - he'd thought they were joking. Then they gave him the papers to read, classified with warning after warning until they bled taunting red ink, and stood over him as he did so. He had the unnerving feeling of being Faust with the Devil hovering at his shoulder, waiting patiently for him to check the fine print on the contract for his soul knowing all the while that he couldn't not sign. He ignored both the agents and the feeling, too concerned with trying to read between the lines of what they were willing to tell him: the early experiments in the 60s, too influenced by Leary and coming to nothing; the unexpected breakthrough by a young researcher, name redacted, the few papers that she managed to publish before the government stepped in and swept both her and and her findings tidily away only to find she was a French national; the deals, denials, developments and deceptions that followed as the technology was improved, tested, stolen, recovered and proliferated as another chip in the cold war gamble. If it had been the plot of a John le Carré story he would have scoffed at the unbelievability of it all even as he enjoyed the thrill. But it wasn't a novel - it was real life with real people; people whose lives and dreams were more than just ink on a page.

Yet they weren't. He'd felt the same sick feeling of disbelief and anger once before, had hoped never to feel it again, but there was a numbness as well, the knowledge of other secrets hidden away in the dark spaces of Whitehall. He still dreamed of the damning film clips: Saida died again and again on a loop he couldn't stop. Every time - the clapper-board retort of the shot and her falling away, a heap of fabric, as crumpled and discarded as the scarf they had ripped from her when a second before she had been the vibrant woman he had loved. Every time he could do nothing but watch - not even able to even call out, to tell her he loved her, do anything except stand and watch her killer turn towards him and salute. Sometimes the dreams changed but his respite was filled with the screams of the woman he hadn't been able to save and the heat of her burning car, of Eshan's blood staining his hands and shirt until he wanted to scream, as Macbeth's lady had screamed, that the blood would never be washed away... But he always remained frozen, silent, as Eshan died again and again is his arms.

Laid out in faded black and archive-aged white, on the Chief Whip's desk no less, were the blueprints of a new nightmare. He tried to summon his outrage and found only weary acquiescence; tracing the diagrams of needles and pumps that fed complex formulas into still bodies he thought of Luke Gardener strapped down to the table as another machine pumped poison into his veins. The guilt at his own deficiency seemed to echo with the memory of Luke's mother's cries.

And now the man who had dragged him away from the burning car with its screaming passenger, who'd tried to destroy the tapes and then watched them with him, who'd been willing to sacrifice Jane, Luke, Eshan and even Mark but who'd backed Mark's play at the end, was standing in his office like they'd never left Washington. It was rather disconcerting. Was it good to see him again? Despite how things ended they'd worked well together and Mark had liked the man, but... And that was the thing with Nicholas. There was always a 'but'. Always the knowledge that he worked for other masters and would jump as they dictated and Mark's wishes be damned.

"You're looking well," Nicholas greeted him amiably. As if he hadn't vanished from Mark's life in a cloud of political smoke only to reappear, Cheshire-cat like, all smiles and cryptic undertones. "Married life clearly suits you."

"Thank you," Mark said, finding refuge in long-ingrained politeness and only a little sarcasm. "I'm enjoying it."

If Nicholas noticed, he ignored it. "And how is Azzam doing?"

"As well as can be expected." Mark's patience for the game was thinner than it had been, fraying over the sharp edges of too many betrayals. "As is Jane. And as much as I would like to think you are here just to catch up with an old colleague I somehow doubt it. I assume this has something to do with your appearing at my training session yesterday?"

Nicholas had the grace to look contrite, or at least the grace to pretend, "I thought you might like an explanation," he offered.

Because Mark had tried to find Nicholas when his supposedly temporary debrief back in London turned into a permanent reassignment. Even dealing with the difficulties of Jane's recovery, the sudden responsibility of new fatherhood, a traumatised child, and a resurrected career Mark had made clear he wouldn't go away until he had conformation that Nicholas wasn't paying for Mark's choices. The last he had heard from Nicholas had been a short phone call telling him to stop being an idiot. He'd heard rumours though.

"I thought you were still running around the map babysitting dignitaries." Mark might have let it go but he hadn't entirely given up. "Does this mean all is forgiven?"

The slight smile was achingly familiar. "London is also on the map."

Mark shook his head in disbelief.

"So this is what they've had you doing - this lucid dreaming project?"

"Among other things."

They were never going to get anywhere like this and, Mark reminded himself, it hadn't been nearly as satisfying as he had hoped the one time he'd given into his suspicions and punched Nicholas as hard as he could. He breathed out carefully - a soft sigh of air which was as close as he could come to saying, at some volume, all the things that he would've really liked to say.

"I should have known it would be you when my secretary wasn't sure who the meeting in my diary was with. I assume you have some cover group I'm meant to have talked to?"

Nicholas's "Of course," was as slick and sure as Mark had expected.

"Right - we're not having this conversation here. I don't know about you but I could do with a stiff drink so I'm adjourning this discussion to Strangers."

It went without saying that Nicholas would be there as his guest. He was almost disappointed when Nicholas didn't object - it would have been nice to have one argument that he stood a chance of winning.

The parliamentary bar wasn't empty, but then it hardly ever was. It also wasn't generally crowded in the afternoon, especially when they weren't in session, and it was easy enough to find a quiet corner out of earshot of the other reprobates playing hooky.

They bought their own drinks in flagrant contravention of the sign on the blackboard above the bar that informed them that only members and officers were permitted to do so.

This time Nicholas didn't bother with the pleasantries as he took a sip of his drink, looked at Mark with customary seriousness and said, "What do you think?"

Mark would have likes to misunderstand but the weight of Nicholas's regard itched at him uncomfortably and wouldn't let him prevaricate.

"It scares me Nicholas," he admitted slowly, trying to find the words. "I won't deny that I've enjoyed what I can remember so far and it's not the fundamental idea, although it raises some big questions... But to be able to invade someone's mind without their permission; where do we draw the line? Will we acknowledge the right of a person to think what they like in their own head or will 'thought crime' truly become a reality? Can we differentiate between what someone does in their own head from their actions in someone else's?" He could hear himself getting more emphatic than he'd intended and forced himself to keep his voice done to levels of emotion more appropriate to their surroundings. Nicholas said nothing, just waited with placid, shuttered eyes that offered no answers. Looking at him Mark could definitely understand the temptation. How many times had he wished he could know what was going on in Nicholas's head? Get under Nicholas's skin as Nicholas had always got under his. It had only ever been a passing thought - but now he had to wonder if any thoughts were just passing. He took a breath and tried again. "It isn't the legislational nightmare," although he was sure some people would see it that way, "it's that you can actively go into someone's mind and commit violence... torture... rape." It hadn't been a question but Nicholas nodded, confirmation and, in its own way, encouragement to Mark to keep going. Not that he needed it any more, the implications of his own words drove him on even as they strangled him. "And it will seem real, feel real, but there will be no physical evidence. My God, Nicholas," the words were almost whispered, "can you imagine what someone could do? What's waterboarding when you have the ability to drown a suspect again and again? Do we train our soldiers to disregard not only other's death but their own because they have died so many times over in each other's minds? We pull a trigger and it means nothing. We cause pain and suffering and dismiss it as nothing because it will be gone when we wake up. That we can do these things... There should be consequences, Nicholas. There are already too many people willing to disregard them - what will we become as a species if we remove them totally?"

Nicholas's fingers on his wrist made him pause but what stopped him was the unexpected understanding in his face.

"There are consequences, Mark," he insisted.

Mark believed him. Believed that he had a much better idea of those consequences than Mark could probably ever have. But still... "Not enough. Not compared to what we can do. And us, the rest of us who know, we're all playing Russian roulette - when it leaks it will put the expenses and phone tapping scandals to shame."

Nicholas's expression closed off again, hand withdrawing. "Mark..." He began, soft tone suggesting strongly that Mark pay close attention to whatever he was about to be told if he valued... well, anything. It wasn't persuasive. Nicholas rarely needed to bother with persuasive when they both knew he was laying down the new reality. That, apparently, hadn't changed.

"So that's why you're really here?" Mark couldn't find it in himself to be surprised or angry. Nicholas didn't do anything without a reason. "Damage control in case I decide to blow the whistle."

Nicholas gave a light chuckle, more deprecation than humour. "Because I did that so well the last time."

"And this isn't your chance to redeem yourself?"

Nicholas look was almost fond. "You really need to stop watching those Hollywood thrillers," he said even thought they both knew he did that even less often than Nicholas resorted to persuasion. "It leaked years ago. There was a brief flurry of interest when it first hit the media back in the 70s and again in the early 80s when the military gave it a brief trial and decided it wasn't any good. After that it just dropped off the public radar."

"A cover up?" Mark asked, frowning as he tried to remember what he had been doing then. Had he still been in university or just taking his first idealistic steps into a diplomatic career?

"No need." Nicholas's fingers tapped on the table gently, a near silent drumroll. "It's expensive, technical, tends to involve a lot of scientific information by over-compensating academics and it's incredibly difficult to prove any verifiable results. It either gets edged out by the latest sightings of Elvis and alien babies from Mars or just dropped as too boring to report on."

As much as he didn't want to, Mark could believe that. "The devil's best trick," he quoted. The original French floated through his mind but he had grown out of such bombastic displays of education during his Middle Eastern dog days when he'd truly learned the difference between theory and implementation.

"Exactly."

It was too simple though, too pat an explanation no matter how credible it sounded. Possibly it did require the extra leap from lucid dreaming to extraction, although anyone with a rudimentary acquaintance with speculative fiction or philosophy would be immediately concerned with the implications of a shared subconscious space, but even without that the possibilities seemed guaranteed to inspire or panic. Both of which made good copy.

"I find it hard to believe that there haven't been any newsworthy stories."

Nicholas spread his hands in a simple magician's flourish. "The people who chose to work in lucid dreaming tend to be a very close-mouthed bunch - it's in their best interests not to stir the pot or they might find that what they do tips from 'grey area' to 'illegal and significant penalties'."

And they probably policed their own Mark realised with a cold shiver. And possibly not just their own. Hell, given what they could do then anyone who started trying to table legislation or even propose an investigative committee better hope that they, and everyone involved, were well militarised and had nothing in their past, present or imagination that could be used against them. Or were ready to resist blandishments, blackmail and even less savoury pressures. As much as one would hope that all the necessary defences would be put into place the unworthy suspicion, although the practical one, was whether those whose future careers might well reside in the area being legislated against would be the most motivated guardians. Or at least motivated in the right way. One did not knowingly put the safety of the hens under the supervision Monsieur Reynard, whether or not he had yet earned his frock coat.

"There is the occasional screw-up," Nicholas admitted, wetting his throat before he continued. "One of the top American researchers committed suicide a few years ago, possibly related to her research, and it looked for a while like that might blow up into something. But then her husband went on the run and it all sorted itself out. You could probably cause a bit of a fuss..." Mark wondered if that was typical British understatement and decided it probably wasn't "...but information about the technology is regularly published in, admittedly obscure, academic journals so you would just be the latest addition to the lunatic fringe railing against the evils of modern technology."

He looked questioningly at Mark, as if this was an offer for him to take or leave.

"Why are you here Nicholas?" Mark asked, slow and careful and leaving no room for doubt.

Nicholas held his eyes. "Because apparently your head is a more interesting place than anyone realised."

Mark couldn't stop the laugh that choked out of him.

"I don't think you realise," Nicholas said, "the situation that you find yourself in."

"You mean the situation where I came into possession of evidence that would destroy the moral credibility of both the British and American governments and, for the sake of that moral credibility..."

Nicholas raised his eyebrows.

"...and a few other reasons..." Mark refused to be distracted, "but we can argue just versus politically expedient wars another time. The point being that I agreed to keep quiet about one unethical government coverup and in an effort to make sure that the information isn't stolen from my mind, something I hadn't been previously aware was possible, I've been landed straight into the middle of another one. That situation?"

Nicholas looked at him, and Mark had the unsettling feeling that Nicholas was laughing at him behind his professional facade. "Don't be ridiculous Mark, all that was taken into account when it was decided you should undergo training."

Yes, Mark supposed, it would have been.

"The situation," Nicholas continued, all traces of humour gone, "is that you're at least two weeks behind schedule because the man selected to train you had so much trouble staying in your mind for long enough to teach you even the basics that he had to call in help. While Upstairs are glad that the problem has apparently been resolved, they want to know what's going on."

"Mr Eames..?" Mark said sceptically. He had no illusions as to what sort of man Eames was but he found it hard to believe that Eames was behind whatever had happened. He supposed that was how people like him operated. It seemed, after all, to work for Nicholas.

Nicholas shook his head. "Eames is one of the best in his field. And his reputation, among other things, is on the line. Obviously it's being checked but we don't believe that he's a problem."

"About Mr Eames..." Mark began and then stopped. It was a stupid question.

"He never served in Tyrgyzstan," Nicholas said quietly. "Not while he was in the military and he didn't go into private security, the opposite if anything." Mark stared at him, shocked. Nicholas's mouth twitched in smile. "I checked his file. I thought you might want to know."

"I'm that transparent?"

Nicholas shook his head, eyes warm.

"Thank you." It was such a small thing but hearing it from Nicholas made him unaccountably relieved, a release of tension that he hadn't really realised that he was carrying with him.

Nicholas smile recalled the best of their time together in Washington. It hurt in a way Mark hadn't expected.

"Now we have that out of the way," Nicholas invited Mark to join him in the joke at both their expense. He wasn't quite ready for that yet but he appreciated the effort. "I'd be interested to hear your impressions of the sessions so far?"

Mark sipped his drink, turning the question and its many responses over in his mind. Another mouthful, burning the taste of a working day's smog, and he felt ready to start talking.

Nicholas's ability to listen hadn't changed either. Mark hadn't meant to tell him how Eames had initially reminded him of Nicholas, something that seemed to amuse Nicholas although, and to Mark's relief, he didn't ask why. How his dreams had been strange for the past few weeks, a bi-product he'd assumed. Sometimes nightmares that left him waking in a cold sweat although he could never remember what it was that had caused the reaction, sometimes dreams that left him feeling so calm and refreshed that he wished he could have dreamed them forever, or at least known what they were. On a few occasions he had woken to find his eyes were wet, others he had left him aroused with only the confused impressions of phantom kisses lingering in his sleep-fogged mind. That confession he kept even vaguer than the others although there was nothing to tell. The one constant was the insomnia that always followed.

"And how is Jane taking that?" Nicholas asked.

"Well," Mark said shortly, unable not to read criticism in the question although the note of concern had probably been for him. "Luckily she was away for the worst of it - conference in Brussels on human rights abuses." The irony of that struck him suddenly, a sharp tug of disquiet. Had they both been set up? Or had it just been a seized opportunity? "And Azzam still has a few bad nights - checking on him seems to help."

"But it's settling down now?" Nicholas pressed.

Mark wanted to tell him that, yes, it was settling down - that Azzam only woke in whimpering terror a few nights each month, that he clung to them slightly less when they had to leave his sight, that there had even been a few times when Azzam had let himself forget everything he had been through to run and laugh and play like any other boy his age might. Instead he said, "Yes, now it's just the implications keeping me awake at night."

"Would it help if I told you it was for your own safety?"

For his safety. For his family. For his country. For the West. He had heard the justifications before. Most days he even believed them. Or at least most of them.

He was sure some of his scepticism was readable to Nicholas's sharp eyes. "I don't like lying to my family."

Nicholas's lips pursed slightly, brow-furrowing in thought. "I'm sure Jane would understand," he said in the face of all available evidence.

Mark felt a warm surge of affection for his wife. "I'm not sure she would. It is one of the things I like about her. She keeps me honest - it's rather refreshing having someone that keeps you honest rather than clean."

Nicholas didn't look convinced. "It's more a matter of relative priorities on those rare occasions that the wheels come off the wagon and we can't have both."

"Death before dishonour?" Mark scoffed.

"A nice retirement plan and more time to spend with the family before dishonour," Nicholas corrected. "The creation of a martyr might give people the impression that you were on to something."

Mark gave him a long, straight look. "And we can't have that," he said dryly.

Nicholas ignored the sarcasm. "Exactly."

"And if, hypothetically, I hadn't wanted to share my impressions with you just now?" They both knew he hadn't considered not doing so for a second to but, in return for being their good little politician, he wanted to know exactly where he stood.

"Then you didn't have to tell me," Nicholas sounded unconcerned about that prospect. "But they would have sent someone else along to ask again - someone more insistent."

Pretty much where he'd thought. He supposed he should be thankful that they were willing to take the softly-softly approach first - whether Nicholas was cause or effect of that it was probably better not to know.

"But this isn't supposed to be an interrogation," Nicholas continued, "or at least not a one-sided one. If you have any questions that you don't want to ask Mr Eames... then I'm here for that as well."

"And you'll answer them?" Mark couldn't quite stop his scepticism creeping into his words.

"I can't promise I'll be able to answer everything. But, yes, part of the reason that I'm talking to you is to try and head you off before you started digging into things on your own." There wasn't even a question in Nicholas's tone as to whether Mark would do that or not, just a knowing admission that they expected him to. In the suddenly-not-at-all privacy of his own head, Mark acknowledged that back when Nicholas had known him last they would have been right. Now, even he wasn't sure. Apparently misunderstanding his silence Nicholas met his eyes squarely as he said, "You asked me to trust you in Washington, and I did. I'm asking you to trust me now."

"My track record is somewhat better then yours." The words and their lingering bitterness were out before Mark could censor them. He sighed. "I'm sorry," he meant it, "you're right."

"I know how you feel about being kept in the dark like this," Nicholas spoke with a low intensity that almost made Mark feel guilty for not being the man Nicholas remembered any more, "but if I can't answer I will at least give you a reason. This is for your own security - you start poking around for information on the more illicit side of lucid dreaming and it isn't us that you will need to watch out for."

It wasn't hard to guess what that meant. It made Mark wonder who had chosen Mr Eames and why. Deniability? Disposability? And, therefore, where his loyalties lay? He was ex-military, Mark had known that even before Nicholas confirmed it. It wasn't hard to guess that the same held true for many in the industry. So it was what... mercenaries, ex-secret service dropped when the cold war became the war on terror, conmen, thieves, no-longer-aspiring academics lured by the promise of steady gain or the lack of ethics boards... How much knowledge was needed for the more technical roles? Was it like the drug trade with perspective employers hanging around universities to pick up the discontented, desperate or failing students with lucrative offers and a low barrier to entry? Chemists presumably - taking a page from the drug cartels. Psychologists? Social scientists? Engineers? Mark supposed that there was, at least, the small mercy that the technology didn't scale. But for small scale, targeted strikes... Corporate espionage... espionage in general. God, the secret services must be loving it, any country that couldn't just torture or disappear anyone that they regarded as suspicious... And on the other side of the coin, organised crime must be in on it - not as consumers necessarily, they had their own methods, but supply and demand of equipment and personnel. Yes, Mark could understand why they would warn him off prying to closely into their secret.

Nicholas waited patiently for Mark to give him the nod. And he did, knowing that Nicholas would hold him to it as a promise.

Of course, a lot had been said about the promises of both politicians and intelligence agents.

Probably best not to dwell on that.

"When did you get involved in all this anyway?" he asked, suddenly curious. Now that he thought about it was almost more of a surprise that Nicholas hadn't been involved sooner. Unless he had been. Mark suppressed a shiver.

"My debriefing when I was recalled from Washington was very thorough." Nicholas shrugged the implications of that statement away almost too fast enough for Mark to catch them. "They were impressed by my responses to lucid dreaming and, given the sensitive nature of the information in question it was decided that they best course of action was to train me up - and here I am."

There he was.

"Why don't believe that's the whole story?"

"Because it isn't," Nicholas said easily, "but it's the relevant part."

"I'm glad..." Mark started and then stopped, unsure how to put the nebulous feeling of responsibility into words without sounding more inane than necessary.

"Me too," Nicholas saved him the indignity, "it was... good working with you." He picked the words carefully as if each had to be individually checked and released for publication.

They smiled at each other wryly, aware of how ridiculous they were both being.

"Another," Mark asked. "My round."

Nicholas's eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall. "Same again," he agreed. "Thank you."

Getting the drinks was only slightly delayed by the required greetings to the few friends and acquaintances who had drifted in. The arrival of the barman and then, in short order, his drinks gave him the opportunity he needed to disengage from the one conversation that showed signs of imminent campaigning. He apologised quickly, grabbed the glasses and beat a hasty and thankful retreat. The very mundanity of it was reassuring.

Nicholas was checking his phone as Mark made it back to the table.

"Angry birds?" he joked as he passed Nicholas his whiskey.

Nicholas smiled, "I was always more of a sudoku man," and slipped the phone away.

"Crosswords," Mark admitted, "but then you knew that." Nicholas had certainly caught him borrowing the news room's papers on enough occasions when he needed five minutes away from diplomacy. Not that Nasreen minded as long as he put them back and didn't fill them in in pen. The thought occurred to him that there were other reasons that a man might be checking his phone. "I'm not keeping you from another appointment, am I?"

Nicholas smiled and shook his head. "I have a few things to do this evening but not at any particular time." He looked across at Mark significantly. "Unlike some other people sitting at this table. Do you need to let your family know that you will be home late?"

It was an odd sensation to desperately want to be at a place and to want to be as far from it as possible. He wanted to be home, no, he wanted to be with his family but at the same time he could not quite shake the irrational feeling that staying away kept them clean and safe. Knowing it was irrational did little to assuage the compulsion. So he compromised, throwing himself into other work until the memory of needle-in-skin and the sweet lullaby of somnacin faded to a more manageable level and could be driven away by the solid reality of domestic bliss. Or his own approximation thereof which was infinitely more desirable due to its imperfections.

"Not too late," he said, a promise and stipulation to himself. A little variability came with the job but he made it a personal rule to be home before Azzam went to bed and he was damned if this was what made him break that rule. "I thought you had a cover story for me."

Nicholas's eyes glittered. "Not one that blends particularly well with whiskey on your breath."

"Ah," Mark said.

"You were the one who said he didn't like lying to his family." Nicholas dismissed the problem. "Tell Jane that you bumped into me and we went to get a drink."

He would, of course. He did not, national security aside, lie to his wife. There was no need and a friendly drink between two ex-colleagues was hardly the reason to start. If only it had been any other ex-colleague.

"Ah," Nicholas echoed, reading something from Mark's expression. "She still doesn't like me."

"Nicholas," Mark felt obliged to point out, "you threatened her."

Worse, Mark thought, he frightened her. She hadn't said as much but it hadn't been difficult to guess. And Nicholas had not only frightened her but, worse, had been witness to that fear. She was hardly alone in that regard - Nicholas had frightened him a time or two as well - but the unhappy truth was that age, experience and being a white man in a profession dominated by white men gave him the privilege of being afraid in situations where fear was an appropriate response without it holding any more meaning than rain in Scotland, and with less call for comment. That Nicholas had thought no less of her, indeed Mark rather suspected that Nicholas respected her highly, was nothing to that personal sense of failure. And that was something Mark understood all too well.

Nicholas frowned, clearly thinking back. "I asked if I needed to," he corrected. "I didn't actually make any threats."

Mark stared at him - he was actually going to try and make that distinction? Of course he was. It would have made him feel a little better if he'd thought that Nicholas was offering the information as mitigation, as unhelpful as it was. Nicholas was too intelligent not to know that wasn't the point which meant he was being deliberately obtuse. Something he hadn't been until they started discussing Nicholas's threats, implied though they might have been, to Jane over the videos.

Mark leaned forward, lowering his voice. "What about Jane. She also saw the tapes."

"Thankfully," Nicholas replied equally quietly, "that little tidbit of information seems to have gotten lost in the confusion. The situation will be reviewed if any further intelligence comes to light but, as far as we can tell, Jane, Azzam, and the rest of your staff are viewed as uninformed bystanders - a view we've rather encouraged."

Mark wondered just who 'we' was in this scenario. "And the journalist - Weiss?"

"We're keeping an eye on Mr Weiss," Nicholas admitted, clearly taking his offer to answer Mark's questions seriously. Mark wasn't sure if he should be pleased or disturbed by that. "He may have his suspicions but he knows what we fed him and he makes a rather good canary for our coal mine."

"That sounds familiarly cold-blooded."

Nicholas sat back, unconcerned. "You're seen as the prime target should anyone take it into their heads to find out anything beyond what was officially released - that's our priority."

To him it really was that simple.

"And you?" Because if someone knew enough to suspect Jane or Weiss knew something interesting then they they might be in a position to know or work out Nicholas's real position at the embassy - which would make him a more tempting, if dangerous, target because all information passed through him.

"The risks are different for someone in my position. Ideally everything will be forgotten and this is all a pointless exercise. " Nicholas shrugged. "If that isn't the case then we can only hope that I'm the person they go after."

A miner's canary who was red in beak and claw and, very possibly, came with his own respirator. Any quibbles, whether masculine pride or sheer bloodymindedness, that Mark might have had about others putting themselves in danger on his behalf were non-applicable when it was his family that was at risk. But despite knowing that, in the event of their being targeted, the perpetuators going after Nicholas was the best possible outcome, it still grated.

"Yellow has never struck me as your colour," he said awkwardly.

"I don't intend to let myself get gassed."

Mark couldn't help the disturbing thought that should someone try and extract from Nicholas, Tyrgyztan might not be the worst that they would find. He was clearly deeply involved in the Government's lucid dream program and, despite Nicholas's offer, Mark was on a need-to-know basis and Nicholas _knew_. Being willing to answer questions was one thing, getting the answers so that you knew what questions you needed to ask was something else and Mark was working without a cheat sheet.

"Or gas-lit." He pressed his first finger down onto the table pointing into the wood to stop himself pointing at Nicholas like some American Evangelical preacher accosting a perceived sinner. "Tell me - since I apparently get to ask questions, do we use this?" He saw Nicholas open his mouth to answer and continued, clarifying, before Nicholas could answer to a lesser charge of his choosing and ignoring the greater. "Does her Majesty's Government sanction the use of nonconsensual extraction on foreign or domestic citizens in the name of national security?"

"The British Government does not currently engage in information gathering through lucid dream extraction," Nicholas said with rote promptness.

That told him the official line. "You said currently," Mark pointed out.

Nicholas nodded. "There was a brief period where it appeared to be a possible avenue... now it's looking less likely," he paused, considering, "at least for the moment. As far as I know, it's under debate as to whether, with sufficient evidence, a court could grant permission... but there's some concern from the privacy advocates that the scope of the order would be too wide. And some of the academics have thrown doubt on the validity on the interpretation of the discoveries - subconscious acts of violence don't necessarily indicate real-world behaviour, or so we are told - and then there's the whole scientific rigour question. It's a bit of a mess."

"But some countries do use it." It wasn't really a question. "And we receive information from those countries."

"And the Americans are currently arguing as to whether evidence gathered through dream-sharing should be admissible in a court of law," Nicholas retorted. In a softer voice he added, "We also receive information from countries that allow the use of torture. Properly done, extraction is a lot kinder."

Mark frowned. "I suppose the number of people willing to volunteer to be tortured is a lot lower. But what you call kindness is just ignorance - if people knew what had been done to them I don't think they would feel any less violated. For many people it might even be worse - bones heal more easily than minds do."

"You think that extraction is more mentally traumatic than torture?" Nicholas sounded more curious than surprised but something unhappy twinged in the back of Mark's mind. A sudden feeling that Nicholas's tone was off slightly although he could not have said why. He tucked the knowledge away, having nothing else to do with it.

"I don't know, Nicholas. How do you quantify something like that. But it surely isn't something we can just dismiss either."

"It isn't dismissed," Nicholas disagreed. "Nor is it that simple."

"Damn it, Nicholas," Mark hissed. "It should be."

Nicholas said nothing, letting Mark play out the argument in his head. The world wasn't simple and it wasn't fair and Mark had to weigh the good he could do against the moral rectitude to be had from taking on the giants, even if it had the effectiveness of tilting at windmills. A good fight had been laid in his lap though and he itched to fight it but the cost was no longer his alone. He suddenly wanted to be home.

"Nicholas..." Mark said eventually, reluctantly. "Don't tell my wife any of this."

Nicholas looked at him with a wholly deceptive calm. "Did you ever think I would?"

No, Mark supposed, he didn't.


	5. Chapter 5

> _Or being hated don't give way to hating..._

~~~~

The knock on the door interrupted absolutely nothing.

Arthur had taken one look at the carefully anonymous parcel that had been waiting for them when they returned the day before and, after opening it with a care that would've done the bomb squad proud, had been persuaded to put the revealed PASIV aside until after he had eaten. That done he had taken it off to a corner of the living room to perform secret pointman incantations over its mechanisms and Eames had barely spoken to him since. He'd slept - or at least headed to bed at a reasonable time only to be up and working on the machine again at an unreasonable one. His actions were, Eames assumed, intended to insure that everything worked within parameters. Arthur's parameters, obviously, nothing else would cut the mustard. It was one of the reasons that Eames both liked and disliked working with Arthur. The alternative was that Arthur really did have an unnatural interest in the things, as Eames might possibly have suggested (he was very drunk and Arthur had just royally screwed a little side deal he had been working on). The way Arthur's body curved as he tinkered and the frown of concentration on his face were pretty conclusive proof of the former (not that Eames had ever actually believed otherwise).

Having spent the day out and about, taking care of the last few chores that his being in London for any period of time required Eames was left to make his own entertainment for the evening. He finished off a steak and kidney pie and chips ('What is that hideous looking green thing you are eating?' 'That, Arthur, is a mushy pea fritter') and, constrained as he was by Arthur's presence and the need to be home in case of visitors, found himself reduced to channel flicking. Doctor Who excepted (cultural and childhood icon), he didn't watch a lot of television (BBC Radio Four man when back on native soil, BBC World Service when playing the ex-pat, whatever the target liked when prepping for a job) but when otherwise at a loose end he did rather enjoy muting the sound and adding his own voice overs, picking up and dropping mannerisms and accents as they caught his interest. It keep his hand in and, Eames discovered, made Arthur twitch in the most amusing way.

Eames cut short his cheerful, Geordie housewife's commentary on the delinquency of youth (not a moment too soon judging by the glares Arthur had started to give him) and bounced to the door, persona not entirely discarded.

He did check the electronic security system, both for himself and for the character (can't be too careful these days, all these young people getting drunk and up to who knows what mischief...) but he let her fall away as soon as he saw who was standing on the doorstep. And it was all himself who gave Arthur a quick word of warning and then buzzed Brocklehurst in.

"I take it you happened to be in the neighbourhood?" Eames greeted him.

Brocklehurst smiled. "Something like that. The package was delivered okay?"

"Arthur is elbow-deep in it as we speak." Eames waved a hand towards the room where the other man was working and gave Brocklehurst's smile right back to him, "He likes to check things."

"Don't we all."

"So did you come to check on the machine or us?"

"Neither. I came to see if you wanted to get a drink? It's been... what? Five years? Six?"

"Close to." Closer to ten. Eames looked him over a bit more carefully. Brocklehurst had changed from the smart, professional suit of the previous afternoon to a more casual ensemble; soft-collared shirt, slacks and light jacket. The clothes were clearly favourites, comfy and worn in until the blues were tinted mauve and the blacks greyed, but still a long way from being reduced to weekend lazing. It was the sort of outfit you might meet an old army buddy in - one who'd seen you covered in mud and blood and sweat (and vice versa), someone for whom you didn't need to make too much of an effort (not a date after all) but still wanted to look respectable. 'Yes,' Eames thought, 'that's how I'd play it as well.' Overall the effect was a bit greyscale for Eames's taste but then he'd never seen the need to try and camouflage himself with the local weather. Of the three of them Arthur, sleeves rolled up as he worked and with no plans on leaving the flat, was by far the smartest dressed (situation normal). Still, it was London in the evening and London of an evening was a patchwork mix of tourists dressed for comfort, business men who'd yet to make it home, ties discarded and shirts crumpled, all weaving in and out with the theatre crowd who themselves scaled from insouciant scruff to black tie and diamonds. They'd be another anonymous set of faces in the throng which was, presumably, what Nicholas had been aiming for. "Yeah, a drink sounds good. Don't know if Arthur'll be up for it though..." he backed up a few steps so that his voice would easily carry into the living room. "Arthur, Nicholas and I are going out for a pint and a catch up," Eames called in Arthur's direction. "You want to join us or stay here and play with your new toy?"

Arthur appeared in the doorway, screwdriver in one hand (2:3 - using it on PASIV, 1:4 - makeshift weapon, 1:48 - makeshift weapon for use on Eames, 1:16 - other) and regarded them with the faint disapproval of a maiden aunt discovering her incontinent moggy's failure to make full use of the litter box. Eames would have been impressed if he'd thought Arthur was intentionally dissembling.

"You go have your reunion." Arthur waved them away. There was definitely a bit more of a glare when he looked at Eames - a 'see, I'm following your lead and improvisation isn't easy for me' frown that was really kind of cute when nothing hung on Arthur's ability to act as anything beyond 'thug#2' not giving them away. "Unless you don't want me to check the mechanism?"

"That's quite alright, Arthur," Eames said magnanimously, grinning inwardly. "You go right ahead."

Arthur made a soft gutteral noise (1:2 - annoyance, 1:2 - dismissal). "Try not to be too noisy when you come in."

"Sober as a mouse and quiet as a judge," Eames promised. He caught Arthur's eye. "You'll be asleep when I get back?"

"That really depends on what time you get back, doesn't it?" Arthur said with a snippiness that was, in Eames considered opinion, almost definitely due to the time difference catching up with him. For someone who travelled as much as Arthur did, the man acted like a cat dunked in water when his time zones got out of whack - it wasn't the tiredness, Eames had seen the man deal with sleep deprivation, and a self-relocated shoulder on top of that, and do his job better than most pointmen Eames had worked with, and all without any noticeable change in his temperament (which, admittedly, was never exactly sweetness and light). Eames's best guess so far was that Arthur's crabby demeanour on such occasions was primarily irritation at his body's refusal to bend to his will. It was probably the best for all concerned that Eames was making himself scarce and letting Arthur have a little more alone time. Not that he doubted Arthur's ability to put his discomfort aside for the sake of the job if things had gone the other way and his presence had been needed.

"Nicholas," Arthur belatedly, but politely, acknowledged him with a nod. Directing one last, "Don't wake me up" at Eames, Arthur retreated back to the other room and the meditative familiarity of the PASIV's innermost workings.

"Just us then," Eames said with a slick smile that he let hover on the border of a leer. "Your local or mine?"

"The club?" Brocklehurst suggested.

"That," Eames agreed, "works for me."

It was also as close as they could get to neutral ground.

They talked of nothings on the way - the weather, a little restaurant in Soho that Brocklehurst had been to and Eames had heard good things of, England's chances in the Six Nations and the state of international cricket. It was companionable and as real as a Daily Mail exclusive.

The club itself was unimposing, one Edwardian townhouse in a row of identical buildings, just a small bronze plaque by the door to give any indication of its function. The decor hadn't changed since the first time Eames had walked through the heavy, panelled door. He wasn't entirely convinced it had changed since the Second World War when the rude arrival of a German firebomb had necessitated both a complete refurbishment and a change of ownership. As Eames got older he appreciated the timeless quality he had once found boring and staid. It was funny how experience could do that.

Eames signed in and waited while Nicholas took his turn, idly scanning the memorial list that held honoured place along one wall. 'In Memory of Those Members,' read the top of the nearest board. The refrain was taken up by the next: 'Who Gave Their Lives'. 'In the service of this country' Eames finished in his head. One day it might be Brocklehurst's name on the polished wood. Or his (depending on how unofficially he'd been disowned). A slight irregularity caught his eye and he wandered the few necessary steps down the hallway to get a closer look.

"They've added Henry." he said as Brocklehurst drew level with him. "His wife finally turn the machine off?"

Brocklehurst followed his gaze to the list where "Lt. H. S. DeClare" was carefully painted in simple, stark letters.

"Not that I've heard," Brocklehurst shook his head slightly. They resumed their journey along the twisting passageway to the main bar. "But given the circumstances they had a vote and the motion was carried to add him. I'm surprised you didn't get the memo."

It didn't surprise him that Brocklehurst knew who he was talking about. Everyone in dream sharing had heard of Henry - or did sooner or later. 'Lt. H. S. DeClare' was different matter; it had taken Eames a few moments to make the connection and he'd met the man. In a manner of speaking. Eames shrugged slightly. If Brocklehurst didn't know why he had been largely incommunicado for the last six months he wasn't going to mention it.

"Good," he said shortly. "There's nothing in there to wake up."

Brocklehurst raised an eyebrow in question. "You tried?"

_...The darkness is all consuming. Nowhere to go. Nothing to see. Emptiness. Vacuum trying to steal his breath. NO! Void. Sucking. Pulling at him. Piece by piece. Thought by thought. Got to get out. Can't. MUST GET OUT! No way to wake himself up. His gun... his clothes... his hair... his skin... the layers of him... Gone! Stripped away. Nothing. There was nothing. Wants to replace what'd been lost. Take all the bits of him. OUT! Wake UP! Not a replacement. Never complete. Never filled. Subsume Everything. No way out. NO WAY OUT! No gun. Can't wake up. Can't... Darkness. Nothing. Pealing away. NO WAY... Time._

"When I was young and foolish," Eames admitted, trying to keep the shiver out of his voice. "You?"

The slight head shake again, lips pursed in thought. "When wiser heads had failed?" If Eames had regurgitated the truism it would have been cyanide-laced with sarcasm but in Brocklehurst's mouth it was just just bitter-almond words. "Didn't see the point."

Glory.

Fame.

Helping a person in need.

Brotherhood.

Advancement of human knowledge.

Testing oneself.

Needing to see for oneself.

The question, as always, was whether the point was worth the risk? Would he have still tried it himself if he'd had the information then that was available now? He wasn't sure - he'd been a cocky little shit back then. There were some people he might have believed if they'd told him what was, or wasn't, down there and let him make his own mind up. If they hadn't made it a challenge. A learning experience. That's what you called it when you survived. He was better at walking away from challenges now. Most of the time. There were at least two other names on the board behind him who hadn't been as lucky. His first pint had their names on it.

The main saloon was wood and faded faux-plasterwork, botanical wallpaper in greens and fawns and khaki creams. It might have started out as something else but decades of, now banished, atmospheric nicotine had left its mark. Now even the fire burning in the wrought iron grate was fake even if the logs artistically stacked besides it were real. The whole room had a comfy, homely feel that Eames had been tempted to borrow aspects of more than a few times to give character to an otherwise lifeless build. He never had. Some things you had to keep separate.

The clientele were often as eclectic as the decor was traditional. It was one of the things that Eames liked about the place. Over in the corner a wrinkled old dear sipped on her sherry, walking stick propped carefully beside her (walked across the Alps on two broken legs to escape the Gestapo back in the day - Eames had read the brief account by the picture of the bright-eyed, young girl in WAAF uniform that graced one wall of the bar) while a few tables across, a dapper man well into his seventies or eighties sat delicately at one table, cravat carefully knotted at the neck of his velvet jacket and carefully matched to both pocket square and socks (no picture and account identified) . The look was completed by lipstick, a hint of rouge on the sunken cheeks and a Quentin Crisp smile (ensemble noted for future use). Bright blue eyes evaluated everyone who walked in with a razor sharpness while a friend of equal vintage (NID, SOE or SIU) chatted carelessly away in a English moustache and a regimental tie. The younger crowd were also in residence - four young (mid-twenties) men (white - Midlands, white - South Wales, black - London estates, mixed ethnicity - Southern Scotland? Edinburgh?) with close cropped hair and an easy camaraderie (paras - same squad - three old hands taking the rookie out) talked and joked together, occasionally casting glances towards the two women (early-mid twenties, white - south London, Persian - south London. Smart - mind and appearance. SIS. Out for a girl's night on the town) drinking wine nearby. A mixed group (five men - two mixed ethnicity, one Jewish, one black Irish, one white, one black, two women - one white, one mixed ethnicity but definite white majority. Age ranging from early fifties to early twenties. Different services and regiments. Shared interest) were planing something legitimate while two men (both white, late forties) were planning something less so. Another man (late twenties, white, heavily tanned to burnt, skin roughened by the elements, recent weight drop, jumpy, second and third fingers of left hand splinted together, favouring right side) sat on his own and downed one shot after shot. Like everyone else in the room they gave him a wide birth on their way to the bar.

"What are you having?" Brocklehurst asked.

Eames looked over to the bar area with its normal schizophrenic mix of work-day beers, fine wines and high end spirits.

"Pint of whatever special they have on," he decided. It really had been too long since he had been somewhere that had a good brew.

Brocklehurst nodded. "Grab a table and I'll get them in."

Eames didn't argue. There was an empty table under the watchful eyes of the small but impressive montage of V.C. recipient members (far enough away to give them privacy, close enough to not look like they were hiding. Nice view of the fireplace and the doors) and he claimed it. The chairs were comfy enough, clearly brought in the knowledge that many of their occupants would be six foot and built to match. Eames made himself comfortable and amused himself people-watching (exchange slight smiles and nods with the gentleman in the velvet coat, decide the large group are planning a charity wilderness hike, estimate the young ladies are on their third round). He let his hand rest on his thigh where he could feel the reassuring solidity of his totem (could trace every second of his movements since he woke up that morning).

Brocklehurst set his pint of something (straw-toned and headless) down and passed Eames's darker ale across to him before settling himself.

Eames raised his glass in the traditional gesture of respect. "Lost comrades," he offered.

Brocklehurst nodded and raised his own in return. "Lost comrades," he echoed, "and rediscovered ones."

With a certain sardonic amusement they clinked glasses and drank.

"Very nice," Eames said in appreciation. He eyed Brocklehurst over the rim of the glass as he took another swallow. "Now if I was a suspicious sort I might be wondering what it was you wanted."

"You helped me break a case I was called in on - I owed you a pint"

"That was uncommonly kind of me." And not the response that Eames had expected. "What did I do?"

"The FBI found themselves a John Doe with its face blown off. Only thing they had to go on was a 'Made in Great Britain' tattoo so they came to us."

"And you thought of me and had them check the military database," Eames concluded for him. In retrospect, possibly not one of his brightest ideas.

"I thought it might _be_ you." There was a tightness to Brocklehurst' tone that wasn't faked. That hadn't changed then - Brocklehurst still had a soul. And was fully capable of doing what needed to be done anyway. The pale blue of Brocklehurst' eyes hadn't changed either, even if everything around them had, and the way they held Eames's made him wonder just how long Brocklehurst had been left thinking that as he added "It was even in the right bloody place."

_The hot water is bliss - but it isn't enough to relax him, the adrenaline of the mission still singing through his nerves and trying to drive him to action. He wants to fight - a good drunken brawl where there isn't any real danger just the prospect of let off some steam. No chance of that around here. No chance of it remaining friendly. He spreads his hands on the cool tiles either side of the shower pipe, letting his head fall forward so the water can beat its tiny fists against his shoulders._

_The shuffle-creak-thump of the door tells him he's no longer alone. It's oh-God-o'clock in the morning but there's no challenge called, relieving him of any need to speak in return. He tracks the sound of footsteps out of reflex, fingers tight against the ceramic. Whoever is there is deliberately making noise. That means they know he's there - why he's there - or can guess._

_"That's new." He knows the voice and deliberately doesn't turn._

_Closer._

_Warm hands spread over the muscle of his arse - one thumb stroking across the dark lines of three-month-old ink - and he lets himself settle into the touch. A warm, strong body presses against his own._

_Eames grins. It's stupid and dangerous and exactly what he needs. Brocklehurst doesn't resist as he flips their positions and pins him against the wall._

Everyone had a past. There was a reason that Eames made it a rule not to mix the people who knew him when he was young and stupid (young _er_ , stupid _er_ ) with the people who met him after he got into lucid dreaming. It normally wasn't that difficult. There weren't that many of them left and he didn't pull many real world jobs these days. Keeping dream and reality apart had been a problem but a manageable one. Not this time (thank you, Lizzy).

"Haven't met anyone that good yet," he said lightly. Getting his brains scrambled because someone fucked up was much more likely these days. Or a dull knife in a scuffle because any fucker who went after him wasn't likely to be professional enough to keep his blade sharp. Or a beating gone wrong (there was a reason he didn't play silly buggers in Vegas). "Well, maybe Arthur but he has been nice enough not to shoot me so far."

"Don't get cocky - all it takes is a lucky shot."

Eames frowned at him. There's something discomfortingly serious in Brocklehurst's face that hadn't been there before (not broken but bruised). They'd both be bawling into their pints if they kept going much longer. "And here I thought you were just hoping to ask me a few questions about Arthur as soon as you could get me alone."

Brocklehurst' smile was wry and more than a little amused. It was a better look on him. "That too," he agreed easily.

"I reserve the right not to know the answer..." Brocklehurst' small nod was enough to know that they were playing softball. So far. "But let's get this over with. I trust that you haven't sullied the ale with anything untoward." Half-joking. But only half.

Brocklehurst's eyes flickered over him, lingering very slightly. "I thought I would save that until you started getting uncooperative." The inflection on the last word didn't quite make it a proposition but it flirted with the concept.

Eames smirked, reacting to the slight tease with his own. A little shift in body language, a little lower pitch in his voice. Reflex. Meaningless. Unless it wasn't. "That'll be a large port next then, if you're slipping me a mickey then it better be in something good." He looked over Brocklehurst in return knowing that Brocklehurst could read the clear appraisal, if not open appreciation. "But not too good."

They were being watched - the gentlemen with the gimlet eye and evocative fashion. Hardly surprising. They were the most interesting thing happening in the bar that evening. He wondered what the old guy was thinking. How close he was to the truth.

"If the regimental dinners you bastards kept gatecrashing," Brocklehurst said without heat - no, without anger - there was a definite warmth to the words, "were anything to go by then the port'll be enough on its own."

God, the regimental dinners. He couldn't even remember which of the fucking nutters in his squad had the bright idea to go and claim the pint that someone (Charlie? Rash?) insisted one of 'Brockles' boys' owed them. And the first time led to the second time and then it just became something that they did. And it always ended the same way...

_Laughing, staggering, together. Slightly more of a swerve to the left than intended and they were trying to walk into a house by the side wall rather than around it, scattering on impact to congeal against the brickwork. Eames pulled himself together, one alcohol-steeped limb at a time. Elsewhere, lost, in the darkness a drunken chorus was trying to find their way somewhere but hadn't come to a consensus as to whether they were trying to get to Tipperary or Amarillo. It made for a surreal soundtrack and he found himself laughing again at the wonderful absurdity of it all. The world was a brilliant place when no fuckers where trying to kill each other, or him and his mates, and he was saturated with all the best of grain and grape._

_Brocklehurst leant on the wall with one hand, head down and breathing deeply. Not puking - just getting his bearings - like up-down, vertical-horizontal, moving-stationary. Eames reached out and scrubbed his hand companionably on the top of Brocklehurst's head. Brocklehurst's short hair was soft, almost downy where he brushed it, rasping against his palm as it resisted his interference. Eames grinned and stroked, more gently, with the grain, until his hand came to rest at the nape of Brocklehurst's neck; cradling the curve of his skull._

_"Y'good, Brock?"_

_Brocklehurst turned his head enough to look at him, fair skin showing the flush of alcohol and the night air but otherwise looking alright. He let go with one last ruffle of the short hair. What everyone needed - a velveteen tommy._

_"S'good. S'good," Sloppy. Drunk. Happy. Alive. "Still can't b'lieve you as'holes turned up"_

_Then they were kissing in the dark lee of a building, tangled and graceless. The taste of brandy, coffee and testosterone on his tongue - sweeter than home-fucking-base after a dirty op. Brocklehurst was lean muscle and youthful arrogance under hands and against his body. Pushing at him and absorbing it when he pushed back. By Eames's estimation, he was a couple of inches shorter than Brocklehurst was but he made up for that in mass and advanced training (confidence, not arrogance) and since it was a matter of bacchanalian impatience rather than roughness they were evenly matched._

_"An' all those promises o' a good time whe' we got back?" Eames's feigned offence wholly negated by the way he was pulling Brocklehurst closer to him, hands greedy for the solid physicality of touch._

_"Y'didn't hav' a good time?" Brocklehurst returned somewhere between huffy and breathy as Eames succeeded in getting his hand on the growing ridge of Brocklehurst's erection and squeezing it through his trousers._

_"Horny drunk," Eames accused lightly getting a gentle shove in reply. Then they were back again, laughing into each other's mouths and against each other's skin. A window slammed open somewhere down the road and they froze, alert. Around the corner the singers were treating the neighbourhood to an increasingly obscene disharmony. Eames winced as a particularly unnatural pitch was achieved (Fai, he recognised that voice. Stupid fucker was sober. Religious prohibitions didn't stop him mixing it with the best of them though)._

_"You stayin' on base?" Brocklehurst asked quickly, quietly, all trace of his inebriation pushed aside. They were hidden by the darkness but that wouldn't last for long. A hint of flashing light in the distance suggested that their immediate vicinity was about to become much more populated._

_"They assigned me a bed somewhere if I want it." He didn't. Not if there was something better going. Brocklehurst was right - it was high time they made themselves scarce. "When've you gotta be back?"_

_"Not till morning." The bright flash of teeth in darkness. "I live off-base."_

_"That's lucky," he murmured into Brocklehurst's neck, letting his teeth graze against the pulse point. The merest suggestion of stubble rasped agreeably against his lips and the scent of clean sweat and arousal filled his nostrils._

_"Not really," Brocklehust muttered and the vibrations tickled against Eames's tongue. Eames believed that. He lived off-base as well. Guys like him and Brocklehurst made their own luck. By mutual agreement they pulled away from each other, each putting themselves back into a semblance of respectability if not complete sobriety._

_The night had an intermittent blue quality and, as a result, a blessed peace had descended._

_"What about them?" Nicholas nodded towards the junction._

_Eames chuckled. "I think their new friends will get 'em back to barracks."_

_"Or give 'em a room for the night," Brocklehurst agreed, amusement clear in his voice. He paused for a moment, watching the play of lights reflecting in the windows. "Should we go and rescue 'em? As responsible officers and all."_

_Eames took one last look at the turning and then back at Brocklehurst. On the one hand those were his men back there, and probably some of Brocklehurst's. On the other, they were big enough and ugly enough to handle themselves in hostile territory. If the silly buggers got themselves into trouble on their home turf, they deserved what they got if they couldn't get themselves out of._

_"Fuck'em," he concluded._

_Nicholas nodded, accepting his decision as the one who had the closer relationship to the guys getting busted. "May I offer a small amendment..." Brocklehurst said as they strolled away._

...with a hangover the size of Russia.

The miasma of been-there/done-that/good-time-had-by-all tension surrounded them with an embarrassment of possibilities. Ten years ago the night might have ended differently. Ten years ago Eames had been a different person. The man sitting across from him wasn't the smart, young officer he had known then either. Ten years to use and be used. Ten years and too many examples (secondhand, thankfully) demonstrating that fucking around didn't make you James Bond - it just meant there was more chance that you would get caught out with your trousers around your ankles. He caught the hint of the same awareness in Brocklehurst's eyes and must have given away something of his own thoughts because they both started laughing.

"So, what do you think I know that your background checks haven't turned up?" Eames asked, still chuckling into his pint as he took a tempering mouthful.

Brocklehurst sobered instantly, although there was still the hint of humour in the laughter lines around his eyes.

"He considers himself an American citizen?" he said. It really was more of a statement than anything else.

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking about his tax returns?"

Brocklehurst leaned forward slightly; his eyes never leaving Eames for a second.

"I'm asking about his loyalties."

Well, yes. He hadn't expected Brocklehurst to come out and say it quite so blatantly. Eames toyed with the idea of giving the simple answer: Arthur could be trusted. It wasn't that he had the reputation of staying bought when he agreed to a job (he did) and not double-dealing on any information discovered during the job (ditto) - that just meant that he was damn good at keeping it quiet if (when) he decided to do so and he probably had a better reason than money (of which there were damn few). On whether the whole Cobb fiasco could be filed under loyalty or masochism Eames had his own opinion (both), one which Arthur would almost certainly disagree with while questioning Eames's understanding of the concepts (loyalty) involved. But then Arthur had always had a problem with thinking big.

"That isn't an idle question," Eames coaxed.

Brocklehurst looked at him.

"How about you tell me why you're asking," Eames tried, taking a sip of his beer more for show than anything else, "beyond the obvious, and I'll tell you what you really want to know?"

Brocklehurst at least gave him the credit of not even pretending to think about it. "You know I can't do that," he said almost apologetically.

Eames had known but it had been worth a punt. "Then how about I tell you what you're asking and you can tell me how far off the mark I am?"

Brocklehurst's expression flickered. He had a good poker face but not that good. "Go on," he said.

"This, us," Eames slid his forefinger backwards and forwards through a small spill on the table, drawing a wet line between them, "isn't a standard ministerial perk. There's something in Mark's head - something he knows but shouldn't." Definite increase in tension there. Eames pressed on. "I'm guessing something he found out accidentally in the course of his Ambassadorial duties that screws the pooch, and plausible deniability, good and proper." That flicker again. Barely there but there. "And it's something big enough to have the guys upstairs running scared - maybe scared enough that if Mark wasn't as high profile as he is it would be a bullet in his skull rather than us." He saw the objection coming before Brocklehurst could make it. "You don't need to answer that," he assured him with a wink. Brocklehurst's eyes narrowed but he settled and let Eames continue without comment. Eames did. It was a while since he had last done a cold reading and Brocklehurst wasn't an easy man to read but a few educated guesses, a little luck... Eames had done more with less. "So Mark..." he mused. "He spent most of his career in the Middle East. It could be almost anything but they brought you in... I thought it was because we had a history, but that was just an added bonus wasn't it?" Yes, that was it. "You worked with Mark, where was it? Washington? And you came on the scene just when someone with possible American, or anti-American, loyalties happens to show up." Eames let that idea settle and found a satisfaction in the way it lay - in the same way that there was a satisfaction in being proved correct as to whether it was this fucking field or the one on the left that was mined. "I've never liked coincidences and that is quite a big one."

"America is a big country," Brocklehurst said carefully (not a denial).

"It is." Eames agreed. Sugar and spice and all things nice - that's what little forgers were (appeared to be) made of. At least until the reveal. "It's also easier for your bosses if their 'observer' already knows what's in the pot at the end of the rainbow." Eames grinned. "Am I close?"

Probably not a hundred percent right but he was pretty sure he wasn't far off.

"I really couldn't say." No emphasis - just the official brush off.

Eames snorted. "I'll take that as a 'yes' then. And you want to know what Arthur would do if he found out something that any one of the leak sites would give their metaphorical right bollock for."

They stared at each other.

"Always a risk in this sort of training scenario," Brocklehurst conceded.

"Most people would say I'm more of a risk than Arthur." Mainly because it was true. It wasn't that Eames didn't stay bought - it was just that occasionally someone else had bought him first.

"Not in this case." Brocklehurst sounded very sure of himself. Which cut down the possibilities somewhat. He might not fly the flag but treason was a bit much, even for him. So was it that Arthur was American (likely if it was something that Mark found himself privy to in Washington) or that he wasn't British? Probably both (re-evaluate when more evidence was available).

"That must be a very juicy piece of gossip your boy has hidden in his head. Now why do you think that I can be trusted to keep schtum and one of the most famously closed-mouthed bastards in the industry can't?"

Because that really was the question. And if he didn't get a satisfactory answer then he was on the next boat, train or aircraft out of here (he could warn Arthur on the move) because he had no intention of getting paid in tungsten.

"You don't know anything," Nicholas pointed out quietly. "And there is no reason to think that'll change over the course of the job - you're here to teach Mark how to hide secrets - not to try and find hypothetical ones. Don't go running from us so fast that you run smack into the people you really need to worry about on this one. We contracted outside the firm in case Mark started causing problems, it's standard practice when dealing with politicians - it's better if you can't be tied to any particular group or department and we trust you to be able to make yourself scarce if the situation demanded it. Why you? We know that you do good work."

Eames nodded acknowledgement of the compliment. "And," he prompted.

"And," Nicholas said, "Arthur has a good reputation but he is largely an unknown quantity. The incident with Mr Cobb shows he clearly has a capacity for personal loyalty but this isn't a personal matter. His ties are more open to question, especially where national interests are concerned."

Eames raised an eyebrow.

"You knew he was in the army?" Nicholas asked.

Knew. Considered. Occasionally beaten off to the concept off. Luckily being in the army had comprehensively cured him of any uniform fetish he might otherwise have had (and he didn't sublimate with suits unlike some people) or the knowledge that somewhere out there were pictures of a young Arthur (it had happened - he just wanted pictorial proof) in OGs or class ones (or covered in mud) would be much too distracting for comfort (the blackmail possibilities alone...).

"And why he left?" Nicholas finished.

"I have a good idea," Eames admitted, not bothering to keep the derision from his tone. "The land of the free can be rather narrow minded."

Brocklehurst pulled wry face. "We weren't much better back then."

True enough but... "It was a third-party outing and with not a shred of proof until they took it from his head." It was a fucking waste, was what it was. "And Arthur's head may be a great place to train in but it's not a place I would want to extract from. Even back then he wouldn't have given up the information without a fight."

Nicholas nodded. "That tallies with what we heard. Our records suggest he was Mossad-trained. It was part of the advanced US program and the timing fits."

Now _that_ Eames hadn't known.

"Doesn't surprise me," Eames said. Arthur was one of the most and least surprising people he had ever met. "He's a fucking vicious bugger when he wants to be. And they had the best extractors back then."

"Explains why he said no when they tried to scoop him up after he was discharged. They had to have done the extraction."

"Explains why they went along with the witch-hunt," Eames countered. "He gets kicked off the programme and out of the army - they welcome him with open arms. He must have really impressed them."

They both considered that.

"Makes you wonder what they really found," Brocklehurst mused. "Of course, then he goes about as legit as you can get and falls in with the Cobbs instead - which was probably lucky for everybody concern even if the Israelis were pissed."

"You did do your homework, didn't you," Eames said with only the slightest hint of sarcasm.

Nicholas managed not to look smug. "You expected otherwise?"

No. But he hadn't given them a lot of time to ferret the information out in and information about Arthur wasn't exactly floating around on the open market these days. That Nicholas, and by extension his bosses, had had the information at their fingertips in such detail and so quickly bore some contemplation. But that could wait until they had a few things sorted out.

"So," Eames said "you don't need me to point out that he was only ahead of the curve by what, six months, a year, before the military sold out to the contractors and discontinued the programme anyway? And by that time he was already building up a solid reputation for himself as an independent. He doesn't have to follow orders and charges them triple his normal rate - which you already know and which answers your question. Arthur does a mean line in grudges but he isn't stupid and doesn't burn his bridges unless he has to."

Brocklehurst seemed pleased by Eames's defence. "Not an idealist then?" He asked.

Eames chuckled. "Not a word I would have chosen," he agreed.

"And what word would you have chosen?" The pleasure had bloomed slightly into amusement. Eames didn't trust it a bit.

"Pragmatic... Professional..." He was pretty sure Arthur didn't have him bugged but deeply ingrained habit kept him from getting too effusive. Arthur was one of the best - with all the irritating, nit-picky, pushy, obsessive, patronising arrogance that came with the territory - and didn't need to hear Eames blowing smoke up his arse.

Nicholas smirked. "Quite a catch."

"Piss off," Eames said without heat.

"I'm serious." And he was - that was the disturbing thing. "Not like you to let an opportunity like that slip away."

"Arthur's not an opportunity." Eames was cutting that train of thought off right there. He normally wouldn't care but this one was on him - he'd brought Arthur in (indirectly, but the call to keep him around had been his) and that made him responsible.

"Ah," Brocklehurst breathed.

"Whatever you're thinking - stop," Eames said. The word sharp as a safety being clicked off.

Brocklehurst showed his empty palms. "I don't think anything." (2:3 platitude, 1:3 sincere) "But it's my job to be aware of anything that might effect the job."

"And that includes my loyalties - beyond those to a member of my squad?" Fucking someone else's team over, that was one thing - fucking over your own men... not unless they tried to fuck you over first. And if things went pear-shaped then it was your job to get them out. "Don't worry," he said with sweet venom, "as I'm sure you'll discover from listening to the tapes - there is nothing to be aware of."

If Brocklehurst was at all bothered by his words he didn't show it. He raised and eyebrow and said levelly, "So what are you planning on doing every evening when you dream together?"

Eames gave him a patently fake smile. "Prepping the next lesson."

He got a sidelong look in return.

"Practicing," Eames said. "Not fucking each other blind." He began ticking points off on his fingers. "Nor are we plotting the overthrow of the monarchy, her Majesty's government or..."

"Alright," Nicholas stopped him. "I just needed to know. You know how it is - if you don't know it can't be taken into account."

"And my word is enough, is it?" Eames said with heavy disbelief. Across the room the large group broke up with many handshakes and affable goodbyes - two of the younger and one of the older members (the ones without attachments to get back to) sticking around for one more round.

"For now."

Not, of course, that that supposed trust would extend to the removal of the surveillance equipment from their flat. Still, if they were playing twenty questions then Eames had a few of his own.

"How many did you have before you came to meet me?"

"Two," Brocklehurst replied immediately. "Single measures." He met Eames's inquisitive eyes without any hint of guilt. But Brocklehurst and guilt had only ever had a nodding acquaintance at best. "Business meeting," he elaborated.

Twice wasn't necessarily a pattern.

"You do a lot of your business meetings in bars?"

"Not as a rule." The gleam in Brocklehurst's eyes said he knew exactly what Eames was getting at. "But if it makes the person I'm meeting more comfortable..." he let the sentence trail off.

"Okay," Eames allowed. It wasn't like he hadn't done his fair share of meetings in less official surrounds (70 - 75%) and he'd made his point.

"And my word is enough, is it?" Brocklehurst echoed back.

"For now," Eames said. "You know how it is - if you don't know it can't be taken into account."

They toasted each other, glasses kissing rims with a gentle clink.

"You've been under with an alcoholic?" Brocklehurst asked.

"Yes," Eames wrinkled his nose in distaste. "It isn't on my recommended list." Before Brocklehurst could press him for details he said, "Was it Mark you were meeting?"

Brocklehurst smirked affirmative, his "I couldn't say," a masterpiece style over substance.

Figured. "Business meeting?" he filled in on Brocklehurst's behalf. "To discuss his progress so far?"

"Hypothetically."

"I can see why he wanted the drink." Eames finished his own and set the empty glass down staring at Brocklehurst curiously. "How come he rates the kid gloves?"

"I don't know what you mean." It was a bold faced lie. Eames was reluctantly impressed by how easily the lie slipped of Brocklehurst's tongue. Even when they both knew it was a lie there was barely a twitch of muscle to give him away. Brocklehurst would be an interesting man to forge.

"You being accommodating." Eames indicated the room, their presence in it and everything beyond with a small motion of his finger. "Even Upstairs are being surprisingly reasonable. It worries me"

Brocklehurst finished his own drink. Buying time? Deciding what to say?

"Your bringing in outside help aside," he said evenly. "You haven't been particularly outrageous. I'm sure they'll let you know if you overstep the mark."

"Yes, well, a little warning would be appreciated," Eames muttered. "And I don't mean the old bill knocking down my door at three in the morning wanting a quiet word in my shell-like. I assume you and your friends know all about that - I rather liked that identity."

The two middle-aged spooks up to no good got up to leave, drifting out of the bar without any fanfare. One of them walked too softly and Eames felt his hackles go up. He wasn't the only one - Brocklehurst, the two elderly gentlemen and the guy newly in from the field and trying to climb into the bottle all paid that little bit extra attention until the man had left the room.

Only when even the shadow of the guy had gone and the tension level of the room had returned to its previous level did Brocklehurst address Eames's accusation - affecting a look of confused innocence to do so.

"All the charges were dropped," he pointed out.

"Due to lack of evidence," Eames said with more than a little bite. "And proof isn't exactly needed when a grown man is accused of pretending to be an underage girl to solicit for sex." Which, yes, if you counted forging one because evidence indicated that it was the best way to get under the mark's skin and extract the information he needed. Thank goodness his internet history was spotless - the second of the two signs that the interruption had been a friendly warning. If they'd been really pissed with him then the girls would have been that much younger and his browser cache would have made the CPS very happy. "I don't know why you were protecting that bastard - you must have known what he was into."

"Hypothetically," Brocklehurst said slowly, "any protection, if it did exist, would have been a strictly temporary arrangement."

The mark had dropped off the map not long afterwards. Maybe he hadn't caught wind of the growing interest in him and rabbited as Eames had assumed at the time. Nothing like having someone dragged down to the local nick for suspected grooming of teenagers who didn't want to know better (and no way that that information didn't leak out) when you liked your girlfriends fresh out of the box to make you rethink your current place of residence.

"You were going to hang him out to dry and didn't want any leaks to tip your hand on the timing," Eames reasoned. "He must have had something good."

"I really couldn't say." No helpful hints in the delivery this time. Eames wondered idly if the guy was still alive - not exactly a great loss if he wasn't.

"And you'll keep monitoring the situation?" was all he said.

Something dark flickered in Brocklehurst's expression for a moment but his tone was light. "Of course."

Not dead then but wherever they had him stashed Eames would lay money on his not enjoying his new accommodation. And given the types of people who had wanted to have long talks with the guy if he ever surfaced he better hope his usefulness didn't run out any time in the near future.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, curious to see what answer he would get.

Brocklehurst smiled slightly, bittersweet. "About as far as you trust me I should think."

Yeah, that sounded about right.

"It's good seeing you again, Brock." Eames said and meant it.

"You too, Eames."

Eames was pretty sure he meant it as well. They shook hands. This job was, Eames mused to himself, going to be a lot more interesting than he had previously thought.


	6. Chapter 6

> _And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise..._

~~~~

Eames wasn't surprised to find Arthur asleep, the PASIV humming softly besides him. While not recommended for everyday use, it was pretty well known in lucid dreaming circles that a very low Somnacin dose (Melatonin mix recommended) and the right dream visualisation were a pretty reliable way to kick jet-lag. Being an international businessman, however suspect, had its priorities. Eames carefully avoided the various surprises Arthur had equally carefully put in place to wake him in the event of an intruder. Or possibly to try and prevent Eames doing exactly what he was about to do. A quick check of the setting confirmed what he suspected - the PASIV was set for a low dose cycle with the Somnacin mix being slowly reduced to let the dreamer sleep naturally when the time ran out. It was about as close to natural dreaming as any of them could get. The biggest danger, other than someone sneaking in and shooting you in the head, was pulling the cannula out in your sleep. It tended to make a bit of a nasty mark on the sheets and, since the needle rarely came out cleanly, on one's arm.

Eames grinned down at Arthur's sleeping form. Silly boy. Settling himself comfortably on a nearby chair he attached his own line and let the gentle caress of the drug lull him into sleep.

Arthur's dream was light and shade and silk and honey; beauty in precision, form and function. The setting was modern, almost futurist in its design, tall spires of spun marble reaching up for the heavens within a crystal cocoon. Projections in sombre attire scurried around the edifice with absorbed self-importance, oblivious to the incidental rainbows that dappled the otherwise pale structures. Eames held out a hand and let the colours play over his palm.

"How someone can be such a sensualist and so pedestrian at the same time continues to amaze me," Eames muttered to himself, waggling his fingers; one red, one green, one blue, and one purple. Still, he couldn't help smiling.

Beneath his feet a second citadel mirrored the first, falling away into the depths of the spit-shined floor. The reflections of the projections carried on their own business, keeping time with their hurrying compatriots. Eames frowned at them - something was wrong but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. He let the flow of the place carry him between the buildings watching carefully for any hint of where the problem lay. The projections themselves seemed calm, or at least unconcerned with Eames's presence, if occupied. The few Eames approached had brushed him off curtly but without aggression. He just wasn't as important in the grand scheme of their existence. Eames was fine with that.

And then he realised what he had been missing and laughed aloud. He had taken to watching one of the projections (white, 5'9", early 20s, strawberry-blond, short hair but long enough to style with gel, slight slouch, favoured left leg, grey suit with subtle pinstripes, salmon shirt, dark pink tie, silver tie clip and cufflinks) because he seemed to appear on a regular basis (for all his lack of creativity, Arthur wasn't so deficient as to have exact duplicate projections wandering around). So regular, in fact, that Eames gave into his curiosity (bad habit that) and followed him through five doors, ten corridors, two rooms and four streets which could not all possibly fit into the geometry of the place.

He had to give Arthur that one - a mobius world whose inhabitants ran in endless circles from one task to another without end. The ultimate rat race. Even Dante would have been horrified. He rolled his totem between his fingers, perfect in its imperfections and wondered if it mattered whether he was in his current version of the city or the one beneath his feet (always beneath your feet) when he went looking for Arthur. He suspected not. The tall windows of the dome served as a clear delineator (oh very clever Arthur) between the workplace and whatever lay beyond. And, if Arthur was following the standard pattern for this type of dream (when did he not), then what lay beyond would include Arthur. Eames just had to hope that he got lucky and Arthur hadn't made the perimeter of this area too large. With one direction as good as any other he picked a road and headed down it. The rainbows were prettier that way.

The door, when he found it, was locked.

'Of course it is,' Eames thought.

Because it was a lock to keep otherwise occupied projections in Eames carefully locked it after him. Then he looked around and blinked. Outside the door the clean, bright light of day diffused to pastel shades of twilight.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen," Eames informed the uncaring world, "is what is known as a basic metaphor."

The world was an impressionist painting of soft, smeared colours. It was a beach. At least Eames thought it was a beach - the golden yellow blur of the ground faded into a smokey-blue darkness and the swish of the waves kissing the sand echoed the steady, deep draw of a sleeper's breath. The sky overhead reminded Eames of antique indigo velvet, faded and dusty but with the occasional glinting hint at what it could (would) be. Nearer the horizon the sun bled radiation shades into air and sea, painting cloud and wave alike with delicate pinks and golds in one last hurrah before it sank out of sight. The soporific notes of slow jazz wove a lullaby into the air.

It was, Eames had to admit, effective. He hadn't felt this chilled out since he was last in the hospital and doped up on the fuzzy stuff (iron bar 2, bone 0). The sand looked so soft. The surroundings so enchanting. Find Arthur first, he promised himself, nothing to stop him kicking back and watching the sunset while they talked.

There were tracks in the sands, not human but the only sign (music aside) of any inhabitants. And where there were inhabitants there would be Arthur. As he walked he shifted into a more relaxed hippy beach-bum look - fuzzy dreads and all-natural hygiene - that seemed to blend with the surroundings. After a moments thought he switched back to his own form but kept the clothes. And the reefer. It seemed appropriate.

He saw the musicians first - or didn't. The instruments, when he got close enough to see then as anything more than a dark protrusion on the landscape, appeared to be playing themselves. As curious as that was, Eames was more interested by what was next to them; Arthur lounged, head tipped back and eyes closed, on a sofa that curled like a treble-clef in the sand. An aardvark (fur allergy?) was curled up at his feet and a large and festooned cocktail rested on the giant tortoise-shell table by his hand. A few wisps of vanilla and orange scented grey hung over the scene (creative license, really Arthur?) courtesy of a hookah that would have done Lewis Carroll's Caterpillar proud. As Eames watched, Arthur sucked on the mouthpiece meditatively, blowing thin streams of multicoloured smoke that slowly faded to monochrome vapour before joining the others above his head.

To Eames's amused astonishment the table (giant turtle) extended its limbs and began to wander away. Without opening his eyes, Arthur put out a hand and snagged his drink before it could be borne off. Something pushed against Eames's leg. Another turtle had waddled across the sand and he was apparently in its way. He stepped aside before it could butt him again. It continued leisurely on and settled itself down in the depression that its predecessor had left. Arthur took a long draw through one of the brightly coloured straws which, Eames was even more delighted to see, had an equally bright, plastic flower attached at the bend. With a soft sigh of satisfaction Arthur placed the glass down.

Eames decided he really rather liked this turned on, tuned in, dropped out version of Arthur. It was hardly the most professional image and Arthur was, above all, a professional - both in dreams and out - but this was a different Arthur. A completely relaxed Arthur without a care in the world (it had been created that way) beyond how daft he looked with his hair ungelled and dishevelled in its natural, if slightly puffy, state (blackmail opportunity..? Not worth it. Also no proof). It made him look younger. No, not younger, but liberated from all burdens of adult responsibility - all his hard edges had melted away until he was soft and approachable. It probably helped that his eyes were shut.

"Nice place you have here," Eames said.

Definitely helped. The world blinked into sharp relief as Arthur sat bolt upright. The requisite, cinematic crash of shock was provided by the jazz ensemble un-ensembling themselves into a heap on the ground.

It was a beach. Still an aardvark.

Eames grinned because 'when in doubt be obnoxious' was a motto that had served him well. And because any forger would have been proud of the speed with which Arthur shifted from the unwound beatnik of Eames's arrival to the starched G-man glaring at him (no mirror either - just the way he saw himself in reflection to Eames) and it just wouldn't do to let Arthur know he was impressed (and a little disappointed).

"It was," Arthur snapped with heavy emphasis. "I thought I told you not to bother me."

"You told me not to wake you up," Eames corrected. "Was that not an invitation to drop in?"

He saw Arthur draw breath to argue with him and then snap his mouth shut in a tight line. Eames waited - pretty sure where this was going but not enough to preempt the process. Arthur deflated, still looking annoyed but less visibly murderous.

"Asshole," he muttered, distinctly enough that Eames knew he was meant to hear. Arthur flopped back on the sofa (90% pose) and looked up at Eames. "Why exactly are you here?"

"I don't know, pet, you picked the architecture. Well, when I say 'architecture'... I liked what you've done with the place though. Very Degas."

He could see from Arthur's expression that it was well past time to stop digging. Somehow he suspected telling him to just relax (again) wouldn't have the desired effect. He really had liked the soft-focus version.

"Here - in the dream - Eames," Arthur enunciated slowly.

"Oh." Getting down to it then. Eames helped himself to a place on the sofa, selecting a spot where the curl put him across from Arthur. The aardvark raised its head and snuffled its nose at him before apparently deciding he was harmless and settling back down again. Eames reached out carefully and scritched its thick skin. It made a soft grunt-y noise that Eames took as approval. When he looked up Arthur was studying him with an incredulous expression that hovered somewhere between 'why are you trying my rapidly diminishing patience?' and 'what the fuck?'. Eames gave him the 'what?' look back - it wasn't as it he was the one who was responsible for the creature.

"A lot more difficult to bug someone's dreams," Eames said, hoping Arthur would miss the hypocrisy of his explanation (no chance). "I thought you might like a chance to yell at me without everything being transcribed by Whitehall. Not, I'm sure, that they don't agree with your assessment of my character but..."

Arthur's eyes slid closed in the universal sign for 'give me strength' and he scrubbed his hands over his face.

"The apartment is wired," he said when he emerged from the self-imposed, invigorating rub.

Eames frowned. "Of course it is."

"And you just left it like that?" This time the resignation came through very clearly. If Eames hadn't know that Arthur was jet-lagged to buggery, and generally of the opinion that if he wanted something done right then he needed to be the one to do it, then he might have been insulted.

"Give me a little credit," he protested. "We negotiated."

Arthur blinked at him. "You negotiated?" he repeated.

"They put the bugs in. I took them out." Eames flapped his hand back and forth in illustration. "They put slightly less back in, I disabled them - or at least reduced them to what I considered to be a more reasonable number. They put a few more back and so the cycle continued..." Eames shrugged. "We'd just about reached a compromise - I'd mostly given them the bedrooms - if they want to listen to me sleeping then who am I to deny them their jollies?"

"Hence," Arthur finished for him, "the need for you to gatecrash my dream?"

Eames really wanted to tease him about using the word 'hence' but that would have to wait for another time.

"Well," he said, "we are still negotiating the audio feed in the reading lights." He grinned. "Your arrival has rather re-opened debate."

The light in Arthur's eye was definitely not humour. "And you couldn't have told me sooner?"

Where was the fun in that? And Eames was pretty sure that Arthur had already been over the apartment and found the bugs.

"I'd have stopped you if you'd been about to discuss something sensitive," Eames assured him, just in case he'd been wrong or that was what Arthur was wanting to hear. "You get a bit uptight if you think you are being recorded." He added spitefully. Arthur was born for many things - but acting for camera, or microphone, was not one of his brightest accomplishments.

"Eames," Arthur said, "they already know that we know about the bugs. It's not as if my behaviour would've given the game away."

That was just missing the point. "It's the principle of the thing," Eames explained.

Arthur stared at him with complete disbelief. "Eames - You wouldn't know a principle if it shot you in the face."

"I have principles," Eames objected.

The aardvark, disturbed by his vehemence, stirred, farted a bit and extended its head to rest against Eames's knee. Eames had no idea if that was normal behaviour for aardvarks, but he doubted Arthur did either. It did distract him somewhat from Arthur's withering challenge to "Name three!"

The aardvark drooled on his leg and Eames looked at it in bemusement and then back to Arthur with equal bemusement.

"Minimum violence necessary," he offered in the face of Arthur's oh-so-condescending, pointed expectation.

"Necessary" Arthur stressed with the smug air of one whose point has been proven. "That's not a principle - that's not being a psychopath."

"Some of my best friends were psychopaths." And doing very well for themselves in the city. "Clinically." Eames expanded, keeping going just to see how long it would take for Arthur to stop him. "Not the obsessive-serial-killer kind. Well - one of them gets a little tetchy is you call him a sociopath. You'd think it would be the other way around, but no..."

"Eames. As delightful as this is - and it isn't - you're just proving my point." Arthur huffed slightly, as if he was the one who was being insulted. "It wasn't a criticism, it was just a statement of fact."

"It was a statement of opinion. And an inaccurate one." Eames would happily put his hand up to being a scoundrel, and indeed cheat, swindler and all-round reprobate - but he rather objected to being thought of as completely unscrupulous in his undertaking of those aforementioned activities. No, he objected to being thought of as completely unscrupulous by Arthur who should have known better, even if Eames's version of ethics was perhaps a little idiosyncratic. "And given your long association with Mr Not-Actually-Holier-Than-Thou you will excuse him if I take it as the criticism it was. I think an apology would be in order."

"You're kidding me."

Only mostly. Eames crossed his arms and looked at him until Arthur threw up his hands in capitulation.

"Alright," he conceded. "Give me your three principles and you'll get your apology."

Eames opened his mouth and shut it again. Arthur raised an eyebrow and Eames thought fast.

"No interfering with the mark topside that's not part of the job," he said. Freud would probably have had a field day over that being the first thing that came to mind but fuck him - you had to have some standards. "And that goes double for while they are drugged or otherwise unconscious. And I won't be part of a team that doesn't hold to that."

Twisted little fuckers like that crawled out of the woodwork every so often and got away with it far too often. Gave all of them a bad name.

"Okay - I'll give you that," Arthur nodded, counting one off on his fingers. Eames assumed Arthur had heard some of the same stories he had, and probably a few about the subsequent misfortunes of those implicated. Eames had only been involved in a few of those misfortunes but he doubted the gossip-mill had missed which way he'd nailed his colours on that particular mast. "Second?" Arthur said - and was there a little less derision in his tone? Eames rather thought there was.

"No collateral damage." If he'd wanted to be part of that game he'd have gone 'private security'. "Family, friends - they aren't part of the job. Projections, hell even forged versions if that's what needs to be done," and, yes, that had been bloody painful, "them's the breaks..." occasionally literally, "But not the real thing."

Arthur raised a second finger. "And the third?" he said without further comment.

Eames hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't have a third (forth, fifth, sixth...) principle - he just wasn't sure that he wanted to share any of them. The problem with ethics, and why (current objections aside) it was arguably better to avoid them completely was because they could be used against you. It wasn't that Eames thought that Arthur would use them to manipulate him (unless it was really important or Cobb had broken a nail) but it was hardly good practice to hand out ammunition to hostile friendlies or friendly hostiles and Arthur had been both over the years. It wasn't a principle - but it was a strong advisory.

"I, uh, might have to get back to you on that," he demurred.

"Don't worry," Arthur said magnanimously, "you've proved that you would know a principle if it shot you in the face... that might be the only way you'd recognise it..."

"Piss off," Eames said, irritated despite himself.

"My dream, Eames," Arthur rapped out, "feel free to leave any time."

The table started to wander off and Eames rescued Arthur's drink before it could be born away. It was electric blue but, when he tried it, it was smooth as Casanova and went down as easily. The replacement table settled into place but Eames kept the glass.

"So you don't want to know what I found out?" he said.

Arthur leant forward, interested for the first time since Eames had arrived. "Go on."

He hadn't commented on the cocktail so Eames took that as permission to keep it. The rich taste of fruit and cream was victory in his mouth. He was going to enjoy this. "They wanted to know if you were trustworthy."

Arthur stiffened. "Me?"

"I'm hardly the unknown quantity here." Eames gave him a loose lipped grin and helped himself to some more of Arthur's cocktail. Blueberries, he decided, a definite hint of blueberries.

"And they found that reassuring?" Arthur asked. Seriously, as far as Eames could tell. Arthur's frown was gaining a suspicious cast. Never a good sign.

"I really don't know why you are acting so surprised," Eames said quickly, "it was hardly a secret I used to be on her Majesty's pay-role. Even if some of the checks were more under the table than others."

The frown deepened. "I was under the distinct impression that you had left"

So that was the problem.

"Let's say that they accepted my honourable resignation." He raised an eyebrow at Arthur. "You think Uncle Sam doesn't still have your number in his little black book somewhere?"

"Not for any phone I currently answer," Arthur said shortly.

It wasn't like Arthur to be naive but he appeared to believe what he was saying. Eames looked at him curiously. He was clearly missing something and he didn't like the feeling. You never really left special forces (not while still breathing anyway) and, however unfortunately it had ended, that surely applied to Arthur just as much as himself. Everyone knew how it worked - they let you maintain the illusion that you were a free agent (saved them going to the time and expense of setting up an identity for you) but it was just that, an illusion (and of course normal protocol applied: you got caught and they'd never heard of you).

"Nice feeling while it lasts," Eames agreed, trying to remember the (brief) period when he'd thought they had cut him free. It hadn't lasted long. He had, as they reminded him, a very specialised and highly desirable skill-set and they had a few suggestions as to how he might wish to apply it. Voluntarily, of course. "But your refusal to take that call raised a few flags for the bean counters in Whitehall and when they get their knickers in a twist the rest of us don't get any sleep until we've untwisted them."

"And you did," Arthur said.

"I gave them my opinion. Don't worry," Eames reassured him with completely insincere kindness, "I was suitable effusive in my praise."

"If I believed you."

Widen the eyes; project shock and/or innocence. "Have I given you reason to think otherwise?"

"Repeatedly."

"Arthur..." Eames objected.

"Are you claiming you wouldn't sell me out?"

"The price would have to be very high."

And not money, but Arthur didn't need to know that.

"And Cobb?"

Eames mentally rolled his eyes. "Much lower." A lot lower after what he pulled... "But then I know I could count on you to bail him out of any difficulties. Of course he's out of the game now and if he knows what's good for him he'll stay that way."

Arthur pulled an expression more often associated with biting down on something unexpectedly sour. "And how does your old army buddy fit into all this?"

Eames brushed the hand not holding Arthur's drink over the leathery skin of the aardvark's skull. It didn't object so he left his hand there and rubbed meditatively with his fingers. "Pretty much as we thought. He was tapped because of his knowledge of both Mark and myself." He nodded towards Arthur. "When I brought you in it was decided to bring him out of the shadows." Decision time - but, as he'd told Brocklehurst, Arthur could be trusted. "Brocklehurst wouldn't confirm it, but this isn't a pre-emptive strike - Mark has something in his head that all concerned would strongly prefer to stay there. Brocklehurst's their insurance policy."

Arthur's eyes flicked around the landscape, experience trumping logic. "Just how strong is this preference?"

Eames held up the hand resting on the aardvark's head, stopping Arthur before he could do anything sensible like kicking himself out of the dream and heading for the nearest available exit from the country. At least before he had the facts. He wouldn't want to put Arthur in a situation where he'd made a decision before he'd obsessed over the details.

"Brocklehurst claims to have convinced his bosses that we can do the job without the information being compromised."

"You believe that?" Arthur asked.

Eames let out a deep breath. That was the question, wasn't it?

"We're the means - what Brocklehurst cares about is the ends. If he thinks he can achieve those ends without making things more messy then, yeah, I believe he'd prefer to keep things clean and easy. He knows that coming after us would make waves, successful or not, and the last thing he wants is waves."

"We do the job and clear out and there's nothing to see," Arthur translated. "We do the job and vanish... people will start wondering why."

"Exactly." This was why Eames liked working with Arthur - his quick grasp of the essentials.

"Assuming they aren't smart enough to wait until we are otherwise involved and divert suspicion."

Admittedly there were some disadvantages.

"Assuming that," Eames agreed

Arthur sighed. "I was hoping for a bit more by the way of reassurance."

Eames shrugged, one-shouldered, and went back to petting the aardvark. It was strangely comforting. Maybe that was why Arthur had it (him? her?). "Brocklehurst is right - there's no reason to think we'll pick whatever it is up by accident. If they're willing to play the waiting game for long enough to divert suspicion then they'll have us under surveillance to see if we're trying to line up buyers, or are otherwise trying to dispose of the information advantageously. If we aren't, and they have no reason to believe that we've picked up whatever little indiscretion is rattling around in Mark's skull then it's unlikely they'll come after us." Brocklehurst had given him a chance to back out - he wasn't going to do any less for Arthur. "This isn't what you signed on for - if you want to ditch..."

"Some of us don't 'ditch' at the first sign of trouble," Arthur said with pointed emphasis, "but if I find you're going after that information then I'll save your 'friends' some effort."

Really, Arthur had absolutely no faith in him...

"They also wanted to know we weren't planning to blow up parliament during our evening dream sessions." Not a twitch of smile although Arthur had relaxed back into his seat. "I gave him my assurances that we weren't."

"You should have told him we wanted the privacy to screw each other's brains out," Arthur smirked.

As if anyone who knew as much about lucid dreaming as Brocklehurst did would believe that - what guy was going to actively court a three minute fuse? Eames didn't even want to try and calculate the odds of whether pre-mature ejaculation would raise or lower his chance of getting shot during sex.

"I'll bear that in mind for next time," he assured Arthur, voice as dry as his mouth. The last dregs of the cocktail suddenly tasted like ambrosia.

"Maybe I'll have a little talk to Mr Brocklehurst myself." Arthur said and Eames wasn't sure if that was a proposition or a threat.

Either way it wasn't good. "Don't trust him, Arthur."

"As one con artist on another?" Arthur laughed.

"Oh, I think our Mr Brocklehurst is a totally different kind of con artist." They'd kept him on - that meant he was management.

Arthur leaned back, totally sure of his control of the situation. Condescending bastard.

"And I think you should know me well enough to know I don't trust anyone."

It didn't help that he was right.

"You don't trust me, Arthur?" Eames complained. "I'm hurt."

That would make Arthur smile. "This is me caring," He said with cheerful callousness.

The table began to wander off and Eames took the opportunity to get rid of the empty glass so he could put his hand on his heart.

"You wound me, darling," he proclaimed with all the over-dramatic flourish of a recent RADA graduate (relationship length: two months - never again).

Arthur regarded him with disconcerting speculation. "That can be arranged," he said.

"That would hardly go well with your shiny, new legitimate image," Eames reminded him. Not a problem Eames had ever had.

Arthur didn't appear particularly concerned. "I could retire," he pointed out. The words 'like Cobb' hung in the air unsaid. "It might be worth it."

"You'd get bored within a month," Eames scoffed.

"I don't know" Arthur smiled, thoughtful and sure, "even without lucid dreaming there are lots of interesting job opportunities. And failing that, there's always the old standby."

"True," Eames agreed. "Promise me you'll let me know the names of the films and remember: no barebacking."

The moment of 'what the hell?' on Arthur's face was a joy to behold. He must have discussed his possible plans so many times with people other than Eames (Cobb? Mal? Miles?) that he had totally forgotten that Eames wasn't in on the process of Arthur's thoughts.

"I meant teaching, Eames." There was a very strongly implied tut-tutting in Arthur's tone which Eames chose to ignore unless he was forced to. If he stopped every time he was 'forced' to correct someone's attitude Eames wasn't at all sure he'd find the time to do anything.

"Oh," Eames let that idea mull; something Arthur wanted or just following in Cobb's size twelves? He could think of six, maybe seven, institutions that would jump at the chance of getting Arthur on staff. He could see it - a waste, but they'd reached the point in their careers that they could afford a little waste. And that was at university level. The idea of Arthur teaching secondary school (or heaven-forfend, primary) was frankly scary. "Definitely no barebacking then."

Arthur frowned at him - a male, modern Victoria; completely unamused. "Are we done here?"

"Yes, Arthur." For the time being at least. "I'll leave you to your little visualisation." He paused, letting the moment hang. "Unless you were joining me topside?"

Unless Arthur had changed his mind now he had more of the facts. Arthur leaned forward, looking Eames over in a way that was too blatant to be real.

"You want to give them something to listen to?" he asked, voice low and suggestive.

"Oh Arthur," Eames sighed, "if only I thought you meant that."

Arthur straightened up. "What makes you think I don't?" he said, a little crossly.

Eames laughed. "Because you only offer when you know I am not in a position to say yes." He toasted Arthur with the empty glass. "You are a cruel, cruel man."

Arthur shrugged. "In which case," he said pleasantly, "get the hell out of my dream... and my room. I'll see you in the morning."

Eames wasn't sure what killed him - he had the strongest suspicion it was a blow from a blunt instrument (literally). He woke up with a smile on his face - Arthur wasn't going anywhere.

He got the hell out of Arthur's room.


	7. Chapter 7

> _If you can dream---and not make dreams your master..._

~~~~

"Good afternoon, Mark," Arthur said. Given the circumstances he felt unaccountably cheerful about the entire situation. A good night's sleep, despite Eames's interruption, and a day to think had helped. Or maybe it was just having a better grasp of what the situation was. The known was infinitely better than the unknown when you had to plan for it. "Today..."

"We're teaching you how to be a criminal," Eames interrupted from the doorway, grinning.

Arthur glared at him but accepted the coffee he was offered. It was not the way he had intended to introduce the subject, as Eames well knew. He'd rather hoped that Eames would take longer in the kitchen and give him a chance to lay the ground work.

"Is this in the 'to catch a thief' way?" Mark asked. "Or should I be worried"

"The former," Arthur said before Eames could answer. "From what I saw the other day, I agree with Eames that you are comfortable enough in the dream that we can start taking you through some of the techniques that extractors use to gather information."

"Arthur will take the lead as the dreamer," Eames continued, "but I'll be down there as well - let you get the feel of dreaming in a group scenario."

"Is there a reason Arthur is the dreamer and not you?" Mark settled in the chair and rolled up his sleeve in preparation. From where Arthur was standing it looked like the slight speckles of needle marks were healing up nicely.

"Lack of imagination is good for some things," Eames said, handing Mark the antiseptic swab. "And one of them is creating a stable dreamspace. And Arthur, here, can create the most stable dreamspace of anyone I have ever met. It makes for an ideal training environment."

And fuck you too, arsehole. Arthur knew he shouldn't respond to the baiting but couldn't stop stop himself from saying "The rest of us call that self-discipline, Mr Eames - you might consider trying it."

Eames feigned shock as he unwound the tubing and passed Arthur his line. "Wouldn't dare, my old sergeant-major always said that sort of thing made you go blind."

Arthur could see Mark hiding his smile. "Self- _discipline_ Eames," Arthur repeated with added emphasis. It was like working with children. Or officers. That Arthur was almost sure Eames was bantering with Mark as a distraction while he hooked him up was somewhat of a mitigating factor. But only somewhat. Dom might have had his issues but at least he hadn't inflicted his sense of humour on everyone.

Eames shrugged. "Depends on how you're doing it," he said with a sudden gravity and slid the needle into Mark's arm.

"More information than we needed to know," Arthur said primly - much better to keep up the repartee rather than admit to the sudden dryness in his mouth. Just when he expected Eames to be salacious, completely ignorable if irritating, the man dropped the act and went in the completely other direction.

Arthur made sure he was comfortably seated in the chair he had taken as his and the needle was comfortably seated in him. Or as comfortable as it ever got having a sharp, metal object inserted under his skin. Eames looked over at him, and Arthur nodded.

"Meet in the reception area," Eames said and hit the button to take them all under...

_Lines. Connecting. Dividing. Extruding. Defining. Here were bricks, walls, windows, buildings... Here was space. Blueprints growing into reality, springing up around him until he was just another small part of the design. Foundations. Scaffolding. Structure. Build up. Build out. Build solid. He was architect and maker; landlord and resident; deus ex machina... He held the entire world in his mind and would not let go._

Arthur looked around him with the satisfaction of a job correctly done. The reception area was modern and airy, better furnished than most government offices but not uncharacteristically so. Plastic ferns and lilies gave some colour to the otherwise drab palette of the room, aided only by the occasional piece of abstract art trying hard, but failing, to be uplifting amidst the leaflets, notices and announcements. Strings of chairs lined the walls and created simple mazes in the central area that did nothing beyond making any ergonomist cry.

The projections milled around, happy enough, and uncaring about the intruders hidden among them. As one of those intruders Arthur appreciated that and resolved to keep it that way. Time to see if his plan had worked. The security office was by the entrance, the desk manned by a familiar projection. On the inside Arthur was doing a happy dance of joy, on the outside he maintained the expected professional demeanour and presented himself for inspection. The conversation was, if anything, more difficult than it had been the first time around. The projection was apparently evolving as Mark learnt. Whether that was a good thing or not, Arthur was still undecided. Or at least undecided as to whether they could put off its becoming a bad thing until after they were long gone.

He signed for his security pass, pleased to see the first line of the page already besmirched by an unreadable scrawl that Arthur took to be Eames's. The projection watched his every movement until the badge was safely clipped to his jacket and then seemed to relax. Arthur could still feel the prickle of eyes on the back of his neck as he walked away and completely didn't duck around the first obstruction that he came to just to get out of the projection's eye-line. Except for the way that he kind-of did. No one, especially Eames, would ever know - that was the important thing. With the first action on his itinerary successfully completed he went in search of the others.

Whether Eames's last minute instruction had worked or pure chance had played in their favour, Mark was in the reception area. As Arthur made his way towards him a little girl, older than Phillipa but not quite a tween, wandered up and raised her hands in childish demand. Arthur could see Mark's first response as he looked around quickly: find the child's parents. Arthur could have told him he that wasn't going to happen but he was curious to see how the scene would play out. Finding a convenient vantage point in the lee of an artificial miniature palm tree he waited and watched and kept his peace.

"Hello," Mark said carefully, and Arthur was sure that the slight step back was wasn't coincidental, "are you lost?"

The girl shook her head and held her arms out for a lift even more emphatically. Her eyes filled with liquid sorrow and she sniffed.

"I'm sorry - you really..." and then he stopped. "I don't remember how I got here," he muttered. The world trembled but it was barely enough to ripple the leaves of the fake office plants.

'Well done,' Arthur thought to himself. 'Very well done.' Mark's conscious memory might still be unreliable but his unconscious was grasping what they were teaching him readily enough.

Mark looked around again, more slowly this time, focusing on the place rather than the people.

"I don't know where here is," he told the girl who stared at him solemnly, waiting for her chosen adult to stop being strange and start conceding to her demands. "I'm dreaming." The girl blinked at him; big, wide hazel eyes falling closed and opening again with Disney-inspired pathos. "You're one of my projections, aren't you? Do you have a name?"

In response the girl reached up and grabbed his sleeve and pulled him towards the nearest row of chairs, Mark dragged along with one hand and her rag doll in the other. From his hiding place Arthur didn't bother to hide his smile. Mark sat down and the girl scrambled up onto his lap forcing him to duck flailing limbs, both hers and the doll's, and catch and redirect her leg before a careless knee was planted somewhere unfortunate.

"Now what?" Mark said when she was settled to her satisfaction.

She stared at him steadily, cuddling the doll close. Apparently deciding he could be trusted she shoved the doll at him, fat tears on her cheeks, and he took from her automatically. There was a rip along the seam of the head and a little stuffing was beginning to poke through. The girl looked at him mournfully, wiping her nose messily with the back of her hand.

Arthur had a very bad feeling about this - time to intervene.

"It's okay," Mark was saying as Arthur walked up. "You want me to fix it?". He spotted Arthur and relaxed minutely. "I seem to have made a friend. You wouldn't happen to have a needle and thread would you - we seem to have a minor medical emergency."

Arthur was going to kill Eames. Slowly. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the leather sewing kit that he carried often enough in the real world that it was easy enough to believe it was here with him in the dream. He should have known better than to think its existence had escaped the attentions of a certain irritating thief. He handed it over and got a thankful smile in return.

Arthur sat down himself and the girl immediately squirmed onto his lap. This, at least, left Mark free to concentrate on his mending.

"Do you think this is a metaphor?" Mark said as he held the needle up and poked the thread through the eye. "My closing the hole in the doll's head?"

"Possibly," Arthur admitted. It was the sort of thing that happened in dreams. "Shall we start off with forgery?"

They would have to go over it again topside of course, but repeating the conversation helped drive the information home. And it was always interesting to see if there were any differences the second time around. While lying in dreams was perfectly possible, extractors did it all the time, being surrounded by one's subconscious occasionally caused people, especially those new to dream sharing, to have a slightly different, more candid, take on things.

Mark looked up from the doll. "Shouldn't we wait for Mr Eames?"

"I'm sure he'll reveal himself in his own time," Arthur said shortly. It really was too typical of Eames.

The girl snuggled against him, both hands gripping the fabric of his shirt in substitution for her toy. He could feel a slight dampness in the cloth which may, or may not, have been his imagination. He just hoped that it was tears or drool and not snot.

"Forgers," Arthur began, "that is someone who can take on the appearance of another person in a dream, are - I'm glad to say - rare."

"Like Mr Eames?"

"Forgers like Mr Eames are, thankfully, even rarer."

Mark smiled. "He's good at what he does?"

"One of the best," Arthur agreed between clenched teeth. "About the only thing standing between Eames and being the best is, well, Eames."

The girl looked at him with something close to adoration. The 'something' really had no place on the face of a child. Arthur did his best to ignore it as he started to take Mark through the basics of forging. The fascinated looks didn't stop. If anything they got worse.

"Triple your age or get off my knee and stop breaking character and looking at me like that," he demanded. The wide-eyed looks had been bad but playing with his tie was taking it way too far. "It's disturbing."

With a moue of disappointment the girl slid off his knee... and then Eames was standing there.

"How did you know that was Eames and not a projection?" Mark asked, surprisingly calmly.

"Eames likes to think he's funny," Arthur said. "The behaviour was that of an unfunny forger rather than a projection."

"Oh, do enlighten us all," Eames said, a little snippily in Arthur's opinion. "Exactly how do projections behave?"

Arthur ignored Eames, who was well aware of the answer, and addressed himself to Mark instead.

"She was more forward than projections tend to be. It's not absolute - some people's subconsciouses are a lot more pushy than others but, as a rule of thumb, projections tend not approach dreamers of their own volition. Unless they are reaction to the intrusion. It can happen but I have no reason to think that one of your projections would proposition me - and certainly not one that looked like she did."

Mark blanched slighted. "No," he agreed. He looked at the doll, now mended, which he was still holding and back at Eames. Eames put his hand out and Mark passed it to him solemnly.

"Thank you," Eames said, holding it to his chest in much the same way as the girl had. He looked down and examined it more closely. "Good job on the stitching."

Reaching into his jacket pocket he pulled out Mark's wallet and handed it back with a self-deprecating smile.

"Dexterity can sometimes be an issue when you are working with younger hands but a bit of practice and it's more than compensated by ease of access. Especially in those situations where an approach by an attractive member of the target's desired gender would be inappropriate or likely to raise suspicions. Whatever will cause the target to drop his or her guard."

"So how do I tell a forger in disguise? Just behaviour?"

"Behaviour is a good indicator," Arthur agreed.

"But not fool proof," Eames objected.

"As Eames says," Arthur nodded towards him, "it's not foolproof - your projection of Nicholas, for example, is unusually... proactive. The other difficulty with using behaviour as an indicator is that it relies on you spending enough time with the object of your suspicion to observe them properly and that's dangerous. Pain, physical exertion, heightened emotions... anything that distracts the forger stands a chance of breaking the forge."

Eames shrugged. "Depending on how good the forger is." His tone made it clear that he didn't count himself among such low-rate amateurs. "And on the forge," he conceded after a moments pause. "some shapes are easier to keep up than others. Mirrors will catch some people out - and the more reflections, the more likely the forger is to slip up. Most levels have a few reflective surfaces around somewhere - lifts, marble floors, bathrooms - lifts are especially good because they often have mirrors on multiple sides."

"On that note," Arthur said firmly. "Shall we continue upstairs for the second part of the lesson?"

"The problem," Eames continued as they walked, "is that you're still put in a position where you have to spend time with the person you suspect is a forger - your best bet is to go with the paranoia and shoot them right off the bat. If it was a projection: no harm done, if you were right then your subconscious is primed to start resisting the intrusion."

Arthur pressed the call button. With a cheerful little bing the left-most lift doors opened.

"Eames, if you would," he said, ushering them inside.

Eames grinned, "Any requests?"

"Keep it simple."

Eames looked into one of the mirrors and settled himself - then the British Prime Minister was looking back.

"You wanted simple," Eames-Cameron said.

Mark coughed, clearly trying, and failing, to hide his amusement.

"If we look at the reflections," Arthur said quickly, "Eames - let it drop a bit. There."

Somewhere between one infinite image of the Prime Minister and the next Eames was echoed back.

Mark's had twitched towards the mirror before he stopped himself.

"There's one theory that the best way to check for a forger is to get him between two mirrors and," Arthur paused, gauging the company, "kick them in the balls" he finished the advice as it had been originally passed to him. "Or equivalent."

"Yes," agreed Eames dropping the forge, "because then the forger will shoot you."

Mark frowned. "If mirrors risk giving the game away why include them in the design at all?" he asked.

Eames made a little 'ah' grunt of delight and slouched against the wall. "Because forgers use them as well."

The unsatisfied expression on Mark's face grew, if anything, deeper. "What for?"

"Ease," Eames said bluntly. "Think about getting dressed in the dark - everyone's done it and most of the time you won't end up wearing different colour socks or your t-shirt inside-out but everyone once in a while you do and don't even notice until you walk out the door and people start looking at you strangely in the street. With forging you're having to put on a whole new person."

"And in dreams the response can be a bit more extreme than a few odd looks if you get it wrong," Arthur put in.

Eames made a small gesture in Arthur's direction which Arthur chose to translate as 'thank you, Arthur, for that invaluable addition. You are completely correct.' Which was probably close to what Eames meant, only without Eames's added sarcasm.

"And that's just general forging," Eames continued. "If you're trying to look like someone in particular then it's more like putting on make-up. Try that without some way of seeing what you're doing and you're likely to end up looking like something from a halloween special. Of course with a lot of practice it is possible - if you're a good forger."

"But you didn't use one when you switched back."

Eames grinned crookedly. "Everyone can get undressed in the dark."

That was an image Arthur could have done without. Eames was still carrying the damn doll.

They exited the lift and Arthur opened the door into the room opposite.

"My office," said Mark in surprise.

"Not really. I designed an office but let your mind populate many of the details. It's a technique used in therapeutic dreamsharing to make the subject feel more at ease by giving them familiar surroundings. Or as a form of mental association."

"For example," Eames put in, "if I say 'desert', you say?"

"Bedouin," Mark said promptly.

"And, as it happens, one of the early dreamscapes I took us to was a basic desert. It could have been anything - you made it a Bedouin encampment. Whereas if you'd dropped Arthur in it would probably remain bare desert - or turn out to be a warzone."

"And in Eames's case there would be a sign for Vegas," Arthur sniped back.

Mark thought about that. "So it's recreating things from the person's past?"

"Not necessarily," Eames said, carefully positioning the doll on a nearby shelf, "and therein lies the difficulty. It could be drawing on your past, or it could be your hopes for the future or your fears or the book you are reading, what you watched on TV last night..."

"Your favourite play," Arthur added. "A good extractor will try and identify influences from real experience as opposed to passing fancy. This is the hardest thing to guard against because it is tapping directly into your subconscious from the moment you go under - before even an experienced dreamer has a chance to realise what is going on. But it is also the hardest thing to draw any accurate or detailed conclusions from - which is fine if you are using the dream as part of a visualisation therapy program but tends to be too inexact for extraction. For that reason extractors employ a number of subtle prompts to lead the subject's mind to where they want it to go. So, for example, in this design we placed a number of picture frames around the room. If we wanted the mark to be thinking of a specific person, let's say, then the architect would design the level so that those pictures would be of that person, or of things likely to remind the mark of them. Otherwise you leave them blank and the mark's mind will automatically fill in the gaps with what their mind thinks is appropriate."

"Which is hardly unrevealing," Mark noted. "Which is this?"

Arthur let a little sliver of smile slip out. "Why don't you tell us?" he invited.

Stepping back, he gestured for Mark examine the room, noting reflexively that Eames had also backed away to give Mark room. If perching on the edge of Mark's desk, arms crossed and expression bored, counted as backing away. Eames caught him looking and winked. Arthur ignored him, examining the room himself for anything that might be out of place. Eames could lounge around like an overgrown delinquent - his involvement in the design had been limited to random suggestions, frequently shouted at Arthur from another room. That many of the ideas had been useful, forcing Arthur to incorporate them, was not a point in their, or Eames's, favour. So far everything looked good. Arthur allowed himself to relax, just the tiniest bit.

"I think you left them blank," Mark said at last. "The pictures are too... mixed. Some of them - that picture of the picnic, the group photo of my staff from my last posting, the picture of Azzam as a baby and the ones on my desk - they're so exact I could tell you exactly where and when they were taken. Others are just completely random - that one with the Tardis of all things, and the Leonardo sketch - I was fascinated by that as a child."

"Very good," Arthur said. Eames couldn't have looked more pleased if he'd got the correct answer himself. In a moment of prescience Arthur was suddenly glad he was out of Eames's nudging range - the smug expression on Eames's face made Arthur suspect that he would have been the recipient of a comradely, proud elbow-in-the-side had they been standing close enough. Arthur focused on Mark and continued, "Now imagine that this wasn't your office - what would you guess about the person who worked here?"

"You're asking me to extract from myself - is this one of your techniques?"

Arthur let out a burst of surprised laughter. "It can be," he admitted. "Keep it general if you feel more comfortable, you don't need to get too personal."

Mark took another slow look around the room. "Does it mean anything that some of the pictures are more blurred and faded than others?"

"Partly vagaries of memory. Partly the emotional influence - there, for example, I imagine most of the day was in soft focus for you." Arthur nodded towards the picture given pride of place on the desk; Mark in full morning suit, looking happy and a little stunned as he posed with one arm around a dark-haired woman in a embroidered, cream-satin dress and his hand on the shoulder of a solemn boy in a formal suit.

"I suppose that's one way of putting it," Mark admitted. He had, Arthur was touched to see, a tender, far-away look on his face at the memory. A late first marriage, relatively recently, and still holding the blush of romance. It was rather sweet really. With a slight shuffle of embarrassment Mark came back to himself. "So pictures of my wedding, my son and my parents in pride of place... family is important."

"Good," Arthur encouraged, "go on."

"But there on the other side of the desk - that picture is from my last posting. I think it might have even been taken before Jane joined us."

Eames picked it up and had studied it before passing it over to Mark for a closer look. While not the same fond look as he'd when thinking about his wedding there was a sentimental smile on his face as he regarded the picture more closely.

"From when you worked with Brocklehurst," Eames noted.

"That was taken one Christmas at the staff party. Someone had suggested we have a secret santa and then we received what Nicholas called an 'imminent and viable threat' and I don't think he slept for a week trying to security check all the anonymous packages on top of the normal increase he had to deal with during the holiday season." The last was said with an ironic enough lilt that Arthur suspected that Mark hadn't had much free time either - although probably more of it had been spent personalising diplomatically correct gifts to exchange with allies, potential allies, and others, or attending all the politically expedient Christmas parties and talking to all the right people.

"Did the threat come to anything?" Arthur asked.

Mark shook his head and handed the photograph back. "Not as far as I know. For what that's worth."

"He'd have told you," Eames said, surprising Arthur. "Something like that - he'd have told you." He put the picture carefully back in its place.

"So family is important." Someone had to get the conversation back on track and Arthur doubted either of the other two could be trusted to. Not with acceptable immediacy at least. "What else?"

Arthur was not entirely sure he liked the tolerant amusement in either of the two sets of eyes that focused on him. Damn - his reputation for being a humourless automation just got another bump. He just wasn't lucky enough that Eames was going to let it go and then they would get into another one of their arguments about acting like a professional versus making the client feel more comfortable. Well, Eames had had his chance to do it his way.

"That picture," Mark indicated the desk, "and on the wall over there, more staff pictures. Good frames. Family is important but so is work. And the people he worked with."

Arthur nodded.

"This wall," Mark walked towards the pictures where a progressively younger Mark slowly drifted back from the centre towards the edges of the crowds. "It's a memorial. The jobs and people left behind. And these..." Mark's voice trailed off.

"Black borders," Eames said gently, "black frames. Names and dates." He didn't need to say any more. "We can move on."

Mark took a long time to drag his eyes from the wall and to Eames. "Thank you."

Arthur would have given a lot to know which one of the pictures Mark had been looking at so intently. But they weren't here for that. And Eames had a better angle, he might have been able to see. With one last glance at the pictures Mark walked resolutely towards the far wall.

"Well-travelled. Or," Mark corrected himself, "an interest in other countries. This collage has pictures from the Middle East, Africa, Asia. And if the books are anything to go by then well-read, probably highly educated. Wide ranging interests - although we're either seeing the family connection again or he has a soft spot for children's books. How am I doing?"

"Very well," Arthur assured him.

The quirk of Mark's lips was mostly self-mocking. "It helps when you know the person. I imagine it would be much more difficult if you were going in blind."

"Psychologists, profilers especially," Arthur said, "are highly sought after as extractors. Because of the difficulties."

"People are hired to do that sort of profiling?" Mark looked around the room, seeing it again with enlightened eyes. "It's not all uncovering secrets?"

"Depends how you define secrets. Hypothetically," Eames said picking his words with obvious enough care that it equally obvious as to whom he was talking about, "imagine a bigoted old codger wanted to know if his son was gay before he left him the family business. The team," his tone put the word very firmly in inverted commas, "goes into the son's head to try and extract that information. As it happens they couldn't find the guy anywhere... there was, however, this lovely girl that 'the extractor' got talking to. In her dream - all woman."

"What did you, I'm sorry, the extractor, tell the client?"

Eames smiled with a con man's open honesty. "The truth - that a positive response was received when they made an approach as someone of the opposite sex. Daddy didn't change his will and passed away knowing that his business was secure in the hands of his (definitely straight) 'son' - who is now officially recognised, incidentally, as his daughter and happily married to a very nice Norwegian banker named Didrik."

Mark shook his head in amused belief. "Know what question to ask."

"Wouldn't have mattered," Eames shrugged. "The guy was an arsehole. The extractor could have walked into a gay orgy complete with interior design by Tom of Finland and an Abba soundtrack and he'd have told the old bastard the same thing."

For a brief, regrettable second, Arthur's mind tried to visualise the spectacle that Eames description conjured. And then it caught up with who was doing the describing and just how unfortunate following that train of thought could be, so he stopped.

"So why did 'they' take the job?" Mark asked. Arthur kept quiet because he wouldn't have minded an answer to that question as well. And because brain bleach hadn't actually been invented yet and he was much better at visualisation than Eames tended to give him credit for.

Arthur couldn't quite convince himself that he was imagining the way that Eames was looking at him as he answered. "To see if it could be done." Then Eames's attention slid back to Mark as smoothly as if it had never been away. "From what I've heard I'm still not convinced it can."

"Why not?" Mark asked, fascinated.

"Who someone is in their head..." Eames touched his first and second fingers to his temple. "That's pretty much who they see themselves as, forgers excepted. But how they act - that is a whole other kettle of fish. Not all fantasies represent desires."

Sudden comprehension lit up Mark's face. "What you said about the subconscious drawing from influences other than reality."

"Yeah," Eames nodded. "They did some tests in the early days - wanted to know if psychopaths had different dreamscapes to 'normal' people. Somehow they got the ethics committee to agree to a team of researchers dipping into the dreams of a group of clinically, and criminally, insane volunteers. They didn't like what the researchers found."

"The dreamscapes were that horrific?" Mark said, natural fascination warring with good manners in his tone.

"The opposite." Eames chuckled at Mark's expression. "They were exactly the same as anyone else's. No 'discernible differences' to the control group," he quoted.

Mark thought about that. "We are all psychopaths within our own minds," he concluded.

"Or at least narcissists with God complexes." Eames shrugged. "With very good reason."

Eames would know, Arthur thought meanly. Although that wasn't really fair - compared to a lot of others in the field, extractors especially, Eames barely rated a demi-god complex. Admittedly a particularly obnoxious demi-god.

"Which isn't to say there that some psychological disorders don't manifest in the dreamscape. Or at least may," Arthur elaborated.

Eames nodded. "There's a theory doing the rounds that some schizophrenic and dissociative identity disorders correlate with the dreamer being unable to tell which manifestations are themselves and which are projections."

"Or they have multiple projections of themselves," Arthur added.

"Sometimes. Or none." Eames widened his eyes. "Now that is fucking scary."

Mark looked between them clearly unsure if they were serious or telling campfire tells. "More tests?"

"No," Arthur admitted. "Things had tightened up a bit by then. There had been a few," he searched for the right word, "mishaps"

"Complete clusterfucks," Eames corrected.

"Mishaps," Arthur insisted. "And universities and funding bodies tend to be quite risk-averse when it comes to the possibility of getting sued over a failed experiment. The evidence is mostly anecdotal. A few private clinics continued to do research, and dream-related therapies, in a variety of psychological areas but mostly it's extractors and other lucid dreaming professionals encountering psychosis in the wild and passing the word on."

"Nothing like corporate espionage for providing a nice range of personality disorders," Eames said with malicious amusement, "and start throwing in some political corruption and the odd dictator..."

"The advantage," Arthur interrupted, not because it was his job to stop Eames incriminating himself but because insulting the client, even by implication, was never a good idea and if Arthur had learnt anything from his involvement with the less superlative period of Dom's career it was when his partner needed to shut up, "is that you can use that. Yes - some things are completely subconscious, instinctive, but you can train your mind to think in certain patterns - we'll give you some exercises you can do - which can influence your first responses when under, even if you aren't aware you are dreaming. And there are other techniques you can use to conceal private information if you know you're under."

Mark looked at Arthur closely. "Such as?"

"Eames," Arthur prompted.

Eames unmoulded himself from the desk and walked over to the filing cabinet.

"The boy in the picture - that's Azzam? Your son."

Mark's eyes narrowed a little. "Yes," he said slowly.

Eames ignored the hint of suspicion and kept going. "I want you to think about him. About how you are his father. You're the one he goes to when he has a grazed knee. When he has trouble at school."

From the look on Mark's face Arthur could only conclude that Eames was right. How he knew these things, Arthur didn't know. Eames was nodding, as if Mark's response was expected, his eyes never leaving Mark's.

"Azzam is your son. You are his father," Eames continued and Mark was nodding along with him, mirroring Eames gesture and probably not even aware he was doing so. Without looking Eames put his hand on the middle drawer. It had a child's drawing taped to it - perfect eyeline for whoever was sitting at the desk. "He drew this, didn't he, for you?"

"It was the first picture he drew for me after he came to live with us. I have it up in my office."

Eames dragged the drawer open and pulled out a brown envelope with the words 'Birth Certificate' written in large, blocky capital letters across the front.

"Your son's birth certificate." Eames waved the paper gently. The envelope was unsealed and Eames laid the contents out on the desk for them all to see.

The first document, which Arthur took to be the locally issued birth certificate, was very pretty but otherwise unreadable. The writing was Arabic in style but the language was not one that Arthur recognised. The second was comparatively plain and proclaimed "Births with the District of the British Consulate General at Tyrgyztan" in mix of typescript form and rather scrawled handwriting. Arthur scanned quickly along the columns... number, when and where, name... and there it was:

Name and Surname of Father: Mark Brydon

Name, Surname and Maiden Name of Mother: Saida Sinclair formerly Borisvitch

Arthur made a mental note of the second just because one never knew what information would prove useful later. Mark was staring at the documents with the sort of conflicted expression that Eames or Dom probably could have deciphered in a heartbeat but which Arthur tended to think looked nothing more than vaguely constipated.

"This..." Mark started and broke off. Reaching out he touched the Tyrgyztani document with an awe normally reserved for archaeologists discovering the lost tomb of the royal archivist had a library annex.

"Is something wrong?" Eames said quietly, his usual showmanship dimmed to a shadow. Arthur surreptitiously checked his gun - it was normally a sign that something was about to go down and, based on first and second hand experience, probably something bad.

Mark blinked, slowly, and shook his head. "The names are wrong," he said, the words catching slightly in his throat as if they didn't want to be said any more than Mark wanted to say them. "Azzam's father is..."

"Wait." Eames held up a finger to stop him and retrieved a rubber from the stationary tidy. Holding it out to Mark he waved his hand at the documents. Mark took it slowly, at Eames's encouraging nod, began rubbing the slanted loops of the column entries on the British form. Carefully at first and then with progressively unrestrained fierceness. Finally satisfied he looked up at Eames for an explanation. Eames leaned down and blew away the rubber leavings. Where Mark's name had been the form now declared 'James Sinclair'.

"When you know you're dreaming you can exert some influence over the objects that your subconscious creates," Arthur explained when neither Mark nor Eames seemed predisposed to speak. "You can't stop your mind hiding secrets in places it identifies as secure - but, with practice, you can influence what is revealed. In most cases it is a matter of mentally redacting the information but it is possible, as Eames demonstrated, to not only remove the information but to leave false information in its place. Unfortunately the more you try to conceal the more difficult it becomes so this technique works best when focused on something specific. And of course it only works if you are aware that you are dreaming." The temptation to add 'and facing off against an alien invasion intent on destroying Earth and using the smoking remains for their intergalactic rockery' was high. "Eames," he said a little more forcefully, "if you could clear those away."

"Of course, Arthur."

Arthur wished, not for the first time, that the deference wasn't quite so sarcastic. Eames brushed close to Mark as he tidied the papers up.

"You are his father now," he said, discreetly enough that Arthur suspected he wasn't supposed to hear. "In every way that counts. You can't be James, and it may not seem like it - but that's a good thing, but you can be family."

Mark looked away from him, his eyes drifting back to the memorial wall where, Arthur realised, the young, smiling faces of Azzam's mother, father and uncle? maternal grandfather? cousin?, gazed back. Mark met Eames's eyes again and his nod was very definite. Then Eames was sliding the envelope back into the cabinet and it was as if nothing had happened.

They practiced redacting information, first under guided direction and then Mark on his own. By the time that the first distorted notes of 'Je Ne Regrette Rien' began their haunting warning Mark was blanking out the documents close to one time in five. For a first session Arthur deemed that acceptable progress. He said as much.

"And, one last thing for today's dream - we need you to give Eames the kick."

"You mean kill him."

Arthur opened the leftmost drawer and pulled out the gun that he had planted there. It felt heavy in his hand; real. Arthur had designed it like that. Left to his own devices Eames would have gone for a ray-gun or a phaser or something equally pointless; all style and flamboyance over practicality. Although, sadly, Mark might have found that easier.

"If you want to put it that way." Arthur held out the weapon and when Mark didn't take it he put it down on the table. Where Eames had offered fraudulent documents Arthur offered honest violence - they each had their specialties. "You can push him out of the window if you'd prefer. But most people who've to spend time with Eames find shooting him much more satisfactory."

"You can really go off some people," Eames complained.

"Yes, Eames, that was rather my point." Arthur put the problem of Eames to one side and focused on the problem in front of him. "You know it isn't real," he said.

"I know," Mark agreed, but the stubborn set of his chin didn't get any less. "But it's the start, isn't it?"

"Mark," Eames began.

"No." Mark shook his head. "I know what you want me to do. And I understand, I do, but this isn't self-defence, it isn't even a fight. You are talking about training me to commit murder, even if it's in my own mind, so that my subconscious, and by circular logic myself, will learn to react with violence. I'm sorry gentlemen, but I won't do it."

"Well if that's the problem," Eames said and before Arthur realised what he intended he'd thrown Mark against the desk, arm across his windpipe and full body weight poised to bear down and crush it. Mark's hand had landed across the gun and for a moment Arthur thought Eames's plan had worked as Mark's fingers wrapped around it.

They froze, a tableau of restrained and gravid violence, balanced so precariously that it made Arthur itch. Very slowly Eames began to increase the pressure and Mark's face reddened.

"Take the shot," Eames advised.

"Why?" Mark croaked. "You kill me and I wake up. Isn't that the point?"

Eames released him and stepped back, looking over to Arthur with a shrug. Mark coughed, rubbing his throat uncomfortably.

"We aren't asking you to do this on whim," Arthur said. "And, despite what Eames's theatrics may imply, it's a very serious matter. If you aren't prepared to attack foreign invaders in your mind, and like it or not that's what we represent, then your projections will follow that lead. They're your front line of defence and it's essential that they have your will behind them otherwise their response will be slow and apathetic at best."

"As you previously noted, my projections seem to be doing well enough without further prompting. I think Mr Eames can vouch for their ability to take the initiative."

"Just one," Eames corrected, "Not all of them. The others only reacted after I attacked. Your projection of Brocklehurst is the exception that proves the rule."

"Rogue projections are not something you can, or should, rely on." Arthur repressed the cold shiver that wanted to skitter down his spine. Mal and Cobb's problem was the past. "If you don't know why it's acting like it is then you can't be assured that it'll keep acting in the same way in the future."

Arthur picked the gun up again and pressed it into Mark's hand. From the other side Eames took gentle hold of Mark's wrist and pointed hand and gun towards his chest.

"You need to do this, Mark," he said, the same persuasive tone that he had used when coaxing Mark through the earlier exercise.

"This is wrong," Mark repeated. Arthur felt rather sorry for him if he thought he was going to get any support from Eames. "You are asking me to completely compromise..."

He stopped as the door to the office was flung open. Arthur reached for his gun, gut churning in the realisation that he was not going to be quick enough to stop whatever was about to happen. Then Nicholas was standing in the doorway, gun raised and Arthur just had time to say Eames's name in warning before Nicholas fired. Eames staggered briefly at the impact, hand coming up to clasp his chest.

Arthur returned fire, catching the projection high in the chest. Whether or not it would have been enough to stop him became moot as his second shot took the projection in the head, snapping it forwards from the force of the exit wound. 'Damn. Damn. Damn.' Arthur thought to himself. If Eames's previous experience held true then the other projections would be up in arms. Not to mention any hope they had of convincing Mark that he needed to defend himself. Arthur heaved the body out of the doorway and slammed the door shut. Even locked and wedged it wouldn't give them much time. At least most of the more disturbing splatter had, through luck as much as anything else, ended up in the corridor or smeared down the outside of the door. Putting his back against the door and surveying the scene in the room Arthur concluded that his concerns about traumatising Mark had been misplaced - huddled next to Eames Mark hadn't even noticed.

"'S okay," Eames was saying, voice breaking slightly. There was no blood that Arthur could see and for one, brief, joyous moment he thought the projection had missed. Eames's eyes slipped across the room to him and the sag of relief that Arthur had everything in hand was unmissible. As if Arthur would allow everything to fall apart just because Eames had been careless enough to let himself get shot.

"Kettle should be boiling about now and you'll be topside before tea's up." Eames grin was a little too fixed but Mark didn't seem to realise that.

He was forging away the injury, Arthur realised with a start. From the slowly-fading panic in Mark's expression as he patted Eames's chest and his fingers came away clean, Arthur acknowledged that it was probably the right call.

"Was it one or two sugars?" Eames asked.

Mark chuckled slightly. "None," he reminded Eames who, to Arthur's knowledge, never forgot something so fundamental about a person except deliberately.

"Right-ho." Eames tapped the side of his head, hand a little heavy and unsteady. "See you in the real world then." The hand fell; a dead weight.

Mark stood slowly, aged a hundred years in as many milliseconds. Arthur was just thankful his expression was not one of vindication. That would come later when Mark wasn't distracted.

"I'll never get used to that," Mark said softly, looking down at Eames's still form. If this was anywhere but a dream the blood from the wound would have stained the carpet around him a sticky burgundy and slack muscles would have released bowels and bladder to add to the unpleasant messiness of death. That they would wake up to a living Eames and his cheesy grin was just one of many the advantages of a dream world. Not that Arthur would ever admit aloud that he had described Eames being alive as an advantage.

"We aren't asking you to," Arthur assured him because it was clearly the right thing to say and the alternative was asking about the other times Mark had found himself with a dead body in his arms and that would have been hideously unprofessional, not to mention suggesting that Arthur couldn't find out the information himself one way or another.

The music was beginning to swell, the familiar, long discordant notes counterpointed by the growing sound of unrest through the door behind him. A locked door, even one of thick, sturdy oak - chosen for that very reason - would not last long against a hoard of determined projections. The sturdiness of the design just transferred the point of failure but by Arthur's estimate it should transfer it for long enough not to matter.

"We can discuss this further," Arthur said, "above."

Mark nodded and the world went away.

Arthur took back anything he might have thought about seeing Eames's cheesy grin upon reawakening.

"Excuse me," Mark said, pressing his fingers to the spot on his arm where he had pulled out his own line. Without waiting for a response he hurried out of the door.

"Looks like his recall is getting better," Eames said laconically.

"Eames..." Arthur began. Eames did have a point. Of all the times they could have done with Mark's flaky memory of dream events...

Eames nodded. "I'll talk to him," he agreed.

~~~~

Mark was, as Eames had guessed, in the men's loos. Hands damp and the tap still running he appeared to have stopped half way through the act of washing his hands, attention caught by the reflection of the bathroom in the mirror behind the sink. Everyone went through that stage sooner or later - you could only explore non-existent worlds for so long before you looked at the person in the mirror with your face and your gestures and wondered. Just a little. Or a lot. But the ones who wondered a lot tended not to be viable for long term conversations. Or even medium term if you were attached to your sanity.

"It won't change, no matter how hard you stare at it," Eames noted.

He'd once spent the best part of a weekend staring at a mirror, convinced that he was changing when he wasn't paying attention and his face and body might slip away from him at any moment. Never worked with that chemist again.

He met Mark's eyes in the mirror and slouched against the wall, waiting for a response and willing to be as irritating as necessary to get it.

"Come to check up on me?" Mark said, clearly inured (resigned) to being monitored.

"Yes." There wasn't any point in hiding it.

That shocked a small laugh out of Mark. "That's refreshingly honest."

"And so you can see I'm intact and unharmed." The clench of the muscles in Mark's shoulders was visible even through his jacket. "How much do you remember?" Eames asked.

They stared at each other in the glass. "More than I wish I did," Mark said finally, dragging his eyes away from Eames's. "Something about Azzam and..." His gaze unfocused, staring off into the middle distance as he tried to piece the fragmented parts together. "But it's confusing - everything seems to change and get mixed up together. You were there and Arthur and a little girl. I'm not sure why she was important. There was a doll though. I definitely remember the doll. And you dead - I can remember that very clearly; the weight of a gun in my hand... There wasn't any blood - there should have been but there wasn't - but I still felt I had to wash it off." Mark looked down at his damp hands as if suddenly realising what he was doing. "Isn't that ridiculous?"

"No," Eames assured him. "Who was it last time?"

Mark blinked, focusing on Eames. "What do you mean?"

"You don't have to tell me, of course," Eames kept his tone light. There was a paper towel dispenser next to him and he pulled a handful out and passed them to Mark before backing off again. "But when people react that strongly to something they encounter in a dream it's almost always because they associate it with something that happened in the real world. Especially someone who hasn't been exposed to lucid dreaming for long."

Eames projected understanding sympathy and waited. If you can fake sincerity and all that.

"Eshan," Mark said slowly, the paper towels crumpled as his grip tightened, "Azzam's uncle."

The serious man with smiling-eyes in the black-framed picture on the memorial wall in Mark's mind.

"He was shot?" Eames asked (95:100 - shot, 1:25 - stabbed, 1:100 - other (executed? IED?)).

Mark nodded.

"And you were there?" Where no member of the British Foreign Office was supposed to be.

"I tried to warn him..."

"You were holding him when he died," Eames finished for him. Had Mark slipped the leash or been too junior to have one..? or too senior? Eshan... Azzam's uncle... Eshan Borisvitch (exiled leader of the democratic opposition in Tyrgyztan, came out of hiding just in time to get murdered in Washington, killer never caught - political assassination suspected but never proved.)... It had been right in front of him (literally). What a pretty mess. Whitehall must have had kittens.

Mark stared at Eames, shocked out of his memories. "How do you know that?"

Eames nodded towards the taps. "You were trying to wash the" - his - "blood off."

Mark followed Eames's gaze to the still running taps and turned them off with a sharp twist.

Near-silence filled the bathroom. The tap, seal worn, oozed a slow drip, torturing them back to conversation.

"This isn't..." Mark began, stiffly embarrassed as he turned back to Eames. Eames waved him off before he could finish. Eames was sure it wasn't but there was nothing he could say that wouldn't underline any perceived failings and better for all concerned if they remained unspoken. Much better to let Mark finish drying his hands, battered dignity intact.

"We need to talk about your reluctance to defend yourself," Eames said when Mark was finished.

Mark frowned. "It has nothing to do with Eshan's death."

Eames would have been willing to debate that assertion on a metaphorical level, although on a direct level he was sure Mark was correct, but that could wait until another time.

"Your projections are you," he insisted. "If you don't think that the integrity of your mind is worth protecting, and that is fundamentally what we are talking about here, then they won't either."

Mark flinched, quickly hidden and little more than a tensing of the muscles.

"This from someone who regularly disregards the integrity of other people's minds," he said crisply.

Eames was sure he was a holy terror in political debates but he had an advantage that none of Mark's normal opponents had - he didn't have to give a shit about his popularity.

"And I also spent years disregarding the integrity of their skin on her Majesty's shilling." And more importantly making sure his own stayed bloody well intact. It was tempting to play into the theatricality of the moment - to draw himself up and project all those year of special service down-and-dirty fighting in a unspoken threat. He didn't. Mark wasn't the type to be intimidated (1:4 - Mark backed down, 3:4 - Mark became more stubborn) and it was unnecessary effort when he got paid either way. "These days I'm the best in a highly specialised field and if I do my job right then no one knows I've been there. Neither of which disproves my point. Except to underline I know what I'm talking about."

If Mark didn't change his mind they might as well pack up and leave for all the good they would do. Arthur hated to leave a job half-done and Eames didn't relish taking the blame for this one but it was his job and his responsibility (this was why he rarely took the lead on jobs).

"I'm sorry." Mark said and to Eames's eye he did look contrite. "You're right." Eames waved away the apology but Mark shook his head pushing on as good breeding and professional courtesy demanded. "What I said was completely out of order. I do appreciate what you and your colleague are doing."

"But," Eames prompted.

Mark breathed out, settling his body and thoughts in one encompassing gesture. "I find myself," he began slowly, measuring out the words like the last bullets in a clip, "very disturbed by the idea that you can condition your subconscious and it has no lasting effect. I accept the idea that the way people act in dreams doesn't necessarily reflect real life desires. I appreciate that. But weren't talking about indulging some passing curiosity." He shook his head in disbelief. "To dismiss any possibility of repercussions seems too simplistic to be true."

It really was a lot easier when the client was stupid. Or less hung up on morality. Mark was a politician, for fuck's sake, overabundance of morals or brains was not normally a problem. Just his luck to get the only one that didn't fit the stereotype.

"You don't strike me as the sort of person who'd get lost in their fantasies," Eames said with complete honesty.

"So it's possible?" Mark demanded with the fervour of the vindicated. Or the desperation of a thirsty man sighting an oasis in the desert.

So much easier. And it was Eames's job to tell him that what he thought he'd found was just a mirage.

"Anything is possible," Eames said cautiously. Arthur could fall madly in love with him. A British player could win Wimbledon. World peace could happen. "That doesn't make it likely."

"Worst case scenario?" Mark demanded.

"Professional dangers aside..." Eames could see Mark preparing to press him for answer, a career in double-talk and temporisation reading Eames's qualification as evasion. Which it wasn't, not really - the type of 'worst case scenarios' that Eames faced on a job (torture, death, insanity, limbo, Arthur's sarcasm...) were vastly different from those that Mark needed to be concerned with. Unless he decided to ditch politics for a career in extraction (1:10 000) - and then, if Brocklehurst hadn't killed him first, they would need to have a whole different conversation. "Lucid dreaming," he continued, not letting Mark rush him, "and the scenarios that it offers - become an obsession."

_Eames had been in morgues that had more life in them. The bodies were laid out in a concentric web, lines going from each wrist to central PASIV. The street value of the machines was high and even with a few high rollers among the sleepers there was no way that the return on that investment was good._

_"Do you test on them?" he asked. It wasn't his business but a chemist who tested on his patrons was one Eames didn't want to be a patron of not matter how highly recommended he came._

_"No," the chemist said quickly. "Not without their consent," he corrected with a little shrug and a self-conscious smile. "Anything else would be unethical."_

_Eames looked around the dingy room with its Imperial opium den vibe (down to the elderly guardian - how Sexton Blake could you get?) and made his decision._

_"Eames," he said, sticking out his hand to shake._

_The chemist smiled, wide and charming. "Yusef"_

"And the reverse?" Mark insisted. "People start acting out behaviour learned during dreaming in the real world."

Role play games. Music. Television. Pornography. Computer games. Books. The politician's favourite game - blame the thing that didn't vote. As if there weren't so many more moral outrages that lucid dreaming could be responsible for. But it was so much easier to retreat into fantasy than to try and make an uncaring reality into the dream you wanted - that took a special type of delusion. There were many ways to try and rule the world - the trick was not to think to small.

"You don't need lucid dreaming for that to be true."

The tight, vinegar twist of Mark's mouth acknowledged the truth of Eames's statement even if Mark refused to be impressed by it. "And yet you both tell me that militarising my mind has no real world implications."

"Mark - you're a politician. You've spent your career as a diplomat trying to find non-violent solutions to problems. You aren't about to start reaching for a gun just because we teach your subconscious to defend itself."

Eames had to give Mark credit - he listened. No one changed their minds in the middle of an argument, that wasn't how people worked, but maybe all that diplomatic training was good for something after all.

"Say you're right," Mark said (hypothetical not concession). "What happens if I succeed and stop these potential attackers from getting whatever they want out of my mind. They presumably don't give up. If, as I'm repeatedly assured, extraction is the new, kinder information collection methodology then if they can get that information out of my head rather than escalating to more direct methods isn't that preferable? How many times do they try and get the information out of my mind before they go after my family?"

That was an excuse and they both knew it.

"That's the risk you take going into politics," Eames said bluntly. "That's the same risk you'd be taking whether or not you complete this training. Doing it our way the bad guys don't get the information and you get advanced warning that your family might be targeted."

"Tell me something. You said forging is highly specialised." Eames nodded, not commenting on the seeming non-sequitur of Mark's statement. "Why? It seems like the type of thing everyone would have a go at - a chance to be someone else..."

"Everyone does." Everyone's dream-image of themselves was just that tiny bit closer to their cultural ideal of beauty - or a little further away. "But very few people can do it well." Eames let some of his fully justified satisfaction creep into his voice. He might be many things - but one of them was being damn good at what he did. "Or keep it up under stress."

"Like when I shot you."

Eames mentally flipped a coin. "Like then."

Lying to clients was generally frowned on but so were a lot of things Eames did on a regular basis. And arguably it had been Mark's projection that had shot him so it had been Mark... just one step removed. More importantly it was often harder to resist temptation the second time. Or what one thought was the second time.

"Why?"

Ask ten experts that, if you could find them, and you would get at least ten different answer. Eames had personally stolen at least three doctoral theses on the subject. He gave the best answer he could.

"Forging is about privilege." He thought about that for a moment more. "Or insanity," he corrected, "which are not as far apart as you might think. It's the delusion." Mark was frowning at him but it was a look of concentration rather than anger or disbelief. "I know, fundamentally, that I can be anyone I want to be - so I can. But not everyone can make that leap; take Arthur, for example, as brilliant as he is, he had to fight so hard to be who he is that he simply can't allow himself to be anyone else."

Bless his carefully pressed cotton socks (he didn't - but sometimes the lie was more real than the truth).

Mark shook his head ruefully. "So we'll know we've have equality when everyone can pretend to be someone else to steal secrets from your head."

Not where Eames had expected Mark to go with the information but why not. "Real forgers, anyway," he temporised. Every profession had its dregs.

"Real forgers?" Mark asked.

"There are people who forge," the 'like me' went unsaid, "and there are people who mimic. They're the ones who were a few sarnies sort of a picnic before they got into lucid dreaming. They have so little idea of who they are that all they can do is mirror who they see. Of course, with that type there is always the possibility that they're going to lose it - get so wrapped up in who they've become that they forget who they were. You can never quite trust who they're going to be when they wake up. Professional risk," he said pointedly.

Eames wasn't entirely surprised that Mark let that one go. He figured he'd given Mark enough to think about that he was willing to stick with the diversion rather than pick up the thread of a debate he'd been losing.

"The egotist or the egoless," Mark summarised.

Eames laughed. "Oh, Arthur has much more of an ego than I do - you should see him destroy small-minded idiots who don't take him seriously. It's a joy to behold. Me..." he gave a shrug.

"Whereas you don't care if you are taken seriously?" It wasn't a question although there was a definite undercurrent of curiosity there.

Eames shrugged. "It's easier if I'm not."

For the first time there was suspicion in Mark's face as he looked at Eames (about time) and asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

Eames smiled. "Because it won't help you at all. And because they are paying me to. Think about what I said, Mark. If you aren't prepared to do what is necessary to kick us out of the dream then your projections, your subconscious won't either and this entire thing is pointless."

The suspicion didn't go but it became something far more complex. "I'll think about it," Mark promised.

That was about the best Eames could hope for.

"You ready to go over today's material?" His tea would probably be drinkable and he could use a cuppa after all that honesty. "Wouldn't want Arthur to think I'd kidnapped you." That would come later.

Mark's lips quirked knowingly. "I don't think it would be Arthur you'd need to worry about."

That, Eames thought, was true enough.

Mark headed towards the door and looked back at him. "You coming?"

Eames nodded his head sideways towards the urinals. "Just have to make use of the facilities and be right with you."

"Right," Mark said politely. "See you in a moment."

Eames smiled and went through the necessary motions until Mark had gone. Stuffing his cock back in his trousers he pulled out his phone. Dialling the number from memory, he counted the cracks in the paintwork as it rang, jigging the fingers of his free hand restlessly. He could imagine Arthur down the hallway, voice soothing and professional, as he started the spiel: "Forgers, that is someone who can take on the appearance of another person in a dream, are - I'm glad to say - rare...". Mark frowning slightly in concentration.

The click of connection and then nothing.

"We have a problem," he said into the silence at the other end.


	8. Chapter 8

> _If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim..._

~~~~

Arthur could feel the low burn just beginning to warm his muscles and pushed himself harder. It had been too long since his last good workout. Despite, or perhaps because of, having been in London with Eames for over a week he still felt the need to stretch the transatlantic flight out of his bones. One day he would buy himself a private aeroplane, one with a gym installed, and he could run marathons across the oceans. It was incidental that he had enough money stashed away in various accounts that he could, if he really wished, carry out his plan at any time. And could have done even before his recent windfall from a certain Japanese business man. It was even possible the business man in question would be willing to negotiate a favourable rate the next time one of his fleet reached the end of its commercial life. As tempting as the fantasy was the reality was about as subtle as a brick. When you existed in the shadows of a legal twilight it was generally considered inadvisable to file flight plans with the authorities. Any momentary gain in comfort would be completely offset by the very large gentleman who would inevitably be calling around for a quiet word - the only question would be whether it'd be spooks, previous clients, previous marks or competitors trying to clear the field a little. Arthur much preferred to be the one doing the calling. That didn't stop him visualising the tasteful panelling of the dining area or the rich brocade, in delicate moderation, of the bedroom.

'Yes,' Arthur thought to himself as he pushed the pace a little more, careful not to overdo it after the unscheduled break but needing to _run_ , 'I am man enough to interior decorate.'

And anyway, there was a thinner line that most architects were willing to admit between architecture and decor... even more so when you worked in lucid dreaming. Arthur might not be an architect (although like most in the profession could do basic setups easily enough) but he had more than enough experience as the dreamer to know that the maze might keep the projections away but it was the look and feel that caught the mark. And they were notoriously fickle - get the pelmet wrong, or a fucking rug, and watch it all come apart.

Deciding he had jogged enough for the moment, Arthur set himself the challenge of a circuit of the weights.

Forty minutes later he was riding the adrenaline high of a good work out; body gloriously drained, mind clear and buzzing with energy. Not quite ready to stop but knowing he should he drifted about the building, investigating what other challenges were available. The pool and steam rooms called but he hadn't thought to bring a costume and, thankfully, the spa wasn't continental enough to be clothing optional and forcing that choice upon him. The cluster of squash and tennis/badminton courts held little appeal and he did not linger. Of more interest were the studios although he was careful not to disturb the people warming up, the two sparring sessions, what looked like a class on fighting dirty or the Zumba workout that he discovered. Next time, he promised himself. He could see why Eames liked the place.

The highlight was tucked away under the innocuous description of "c-wall/pk run". The large airy room had probably been part of the original gym but had been superseded by the more modern facilities. Now two sides were dominated by climbing walls of increasing difficulty, both urban and natural formations Arthur noted with interest, but the rest of the room... Arthur was definitely, definitely, coming back here whoever he had to kill, bribe or blow. The rest of the room was set up as a combination of obstacle course and urban planner's nightmare. A few men and women flowed about the room, springing off the blocks and hurdles with the fluidity of long practice, barely breaking their speed as they sprinted across the trackless labyrinth or looped, again and again, through one move or other.

Arthur took a mental inventory and rated himself as fit. Limbering up he threw himself up and over the first wall, bunny hopped onto the block behind it and used the added height to vault the next obstacle. The world fell away until it was just a crooked collection of shapes for him to navigate; a puzzle that could only be solved by skill and control. It was some of the best aspects of dreaming - and without a horde of bloodthirsty projections chasing him down. He stopped when, muscles fatigued, his fingers slipped on what should have been a easy catch. He landed well enough, if untidily, but it was a timely reminder that his surrounds were not a facet of his imagination and he was, therefore, subject to all the normal human frailties.

He cooled down more carefully than he had warmed up because the only thing worse than feeling sore and stiff for the rest of the day was feeling sore and stiff and having Eames pass comment on it. Which he would. The sign to the steam room looked even more inviting than it had before as he made his way back to the changing rooms.

"Arthur?"

Arthur turned, surprised. First, because he hadn't expected to bump into Eames at the gym even if it was one Eames had lent Arthur his card for. Especially if it was the one Eames had lent him the card for - although it was hardly beyond Eames's skill to procure a spare. Second, because, when he turned, he realised that it wasn't Eames who had spoken. And, yes, of course, they were in London, England, and Eames's distinctive drawl was no longer a unique identifier. There was a reason that he didn't work in the UK often and it had nothing to do with the weather.

"Nicholas," he greeted him.

His first instinct was to suspect a setup - his shadow hadn't been evident since he arrived but he'd certainly been followed to the gym and his location would've been phoned in. Nicholas was dressed appropriately and had a gym bag in his hand but that didn't mean anything. First, and second, glance showed Nicholas's hair was spiked with sweat and his fair skin still held a flush of exertion. It was probably still a setup but at least Nicholas had worked for it.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Nicholas said and Arthur wondered if that was supposed to be reassurance or double-bluff. "I suppose Eames gave you his card." The tone was more resigned than disproving and just a little bit fond. It made Arthur wonder again what sort of gym Eames had a card for and just how many rules Eames had been flouting letting Arthur use his membership.

"He said it wouldn't be a problem."

Nicholas's smile seemed genuine. "I'm sure he's right." He rubbed the end of the small towel hanging around his neck over his damp hair over more, disordering it further. "I'm glad I saw you - saves me tracking you down later. If you and Eames are free tomorrow night then Mark's hosting a reception. We'd like you to be there - get to know Mark better."

Arthur knew his scepticism must be showing in his expression but it saved him the bother of voicing his doubts. He also pointedly didn't ask who the 'we' referred to.

"It's a small affair," Nicholas went on. "Mostly non-political - charities and so forth. We'll provide you with a cover of course."

"And does Mark know that his guest list has been expanded?"

Nicholas's expression didn't change. "He knows what he needs to know," he said easily.

Their eyes met in understanding.

"I'll pass the message on to Eames," Arthur allowed, not ready to make any other concessions at that moment.

"Nicholas!" A dark-skinned man with close-cut hair, a too-soft walk and a ready smile greeted him. "Oh, sorry mate," he said as he caught sight of Arthur, "didn't mean to interrupt."

"Be with you in a moment," Nicholas said, hand slapping the man's upper arm lightly. Arthur wasn't surprised that Nicholas didn't introduce them as the newcomer slapped Nicholas's arm in return and with a polite nod to Arthur took himself off out of easy earshot. "Sorry," Nicholas echoed, "was there something else?"

"It can wait," Arthur decided. "Have the details of the reception sent over this evening. If there's a problem we'll get in touch." He looked over at the man waiting for Nicholas, squash racquet held loosely in his hand and tried to ignore the twinge of tightening muscles. "If I were to take a closer look at this gym... exactly how badly am I going to want to hurt Eames?"

"I would have to recommend you didn't..." The flicker of humour played over Nicholas face and infused his next words. "And probably quite badly."

Arthur bit back a sigh. He'd known better, he really had.

"Do you know if he even has a membership here?" he said with weary resignation.

Nicholas chuckled. "To the best of my knowledge he does."

Arthur gave up. "Do you know if they rent swimming trunks?"

~~~~

Eames answered his phone just before Arthur was about to give up in irritation. He'd felt so wonderfully relaxed and sanguine when he got back to the flat but that state of affairs had only lasted until he realised Eames was missing. He was, Arthur concluded after he had done a complete check of the apartment, probably not actually 'missing' so much as not immediately present. There were no signs of either a struggle or a recent tidy up to cover a struggle suggesting that Eames had left the flat at least nominally voluntarily. Coercion and threats aside of course. But while it was possible, it was, for once, unlikely. Firstly because the job itself wasn't inherently dangerous - they were not only legal, but working on behalf of the authorities - and secondly because if anything untoward had occurred then said authorities would have been alerted by the surveillance strategically placed around the flat. Arthur was still a little irritated about that but, having worked with Eames before, he had some sympathy for the impulse. They would, he felt, at least have left him a note if they had witnessed Eames being hustled away by persons unknown.

Which brought him onto the final evidence offered in the form of a note left cheekily on the coffee maker. The note, torn from some larger document, type unknown, read 'gn out cu l8r' in a tangled script that would have done the most harried doctor proud. Arthur didn't recognise the handwriting but that could signify nothing more than Eames had been practising and hadn't quite got out of character. Or, more concerningly, that the note held Eames's normal cursive style, for once on display without artifice, and that Eames really did write like that. Which left the question of whether Eames gone out, metaphorically or literally, to get milk and was being unhelpful because he was an arrogant asshole or was up to something more unsavoury and didn't want to leave written evidence in an unsafe location. Which also meant, thanks to Eames's little games, that Arthur had to go back outside to make the call when what he really wanted to do was relax on the surprisingly comfortable sofa and read a book.

"Where are you?" he demanded.

"The gym has done wonders for your temperament, I see," Eames muttered. "Camden," he said more clearly. "Had to see my dealer."

An answer which didn't actually solve the asshole or unsavoury dilemma even if it strongly hinted that the answer was both. "Drugs or poker?"

"Neither," Eames said with happy lack of concern "why?"

"Actually I think that's my question." Arthur held back a sigh that would have had no point but to make him feel better and would probably have failed in that. "Will you be coming back soon or should I meet you there?"

Over the slight sound of Eames's breath, Arthur could hear the clutter of crowds; a static of muted voices, shouts and giggles punctuated by the occasional grumble of inanima.

Eames voice cut over the urban soundtrack. "You might as well head over this way. Let me know when you get close. And Arthur," his tone was one of friendly helpfulness that Arthur had learned never to trust, "in this country we use public transport."

"Arsehole." One time he forgot...

Eames laughed. "We use those too."

"For talking with apparently."

He hung up smiling.

Camden was Camden. There wasn't much else to say about it. He'd visited once when he'd been younger and had found the air of pretentious desperation a little off-putting. It was the awkward teenager of London districts with its designer anti-establishment chic and its mundane, middle-class rebellion.

This time Eames answered on the third ring.

"We're here," Arthur informed him. His constant companion was lurking on the other side of the station concourse pretending to peruse the day's headlines in the newsagent's. He wondered if Eames had brought a tail of his own. They could, he supposed, keep each other company.

"Good, good," Eames said distractedly. "Head down the High Street towards the lock and I'll meet you on the way. I'm nearly..." Arthur could hear someone talking in the background and Eames's, "thank you. You too. Sorry," and Arthur assumed Eames was talking to him again. "What was I saying?"

"You'll meet me on the High Street," Arthur repeated.

"Okay," Eames agreed and hung up leaving Arthur staring at a trio of teenage goths, two girls and a boy, with unnatural colours in their hair and too much eyeshadow. They gave him curious, uninterested looks and went on their giggling way. Arthur reached for the peace he had found a mere few hours before and, thus fortified, left the relative safety of the tube station to brave Camden Lock on a Saturday afternoon.

When in his natural form, Eames tended to stand out in any crowd. Since those occasions when he wanted to blend in almost always occurred in close proximity to sudden and decisive violence, Arthur found himself getting a little twitchy at the way that the eclectic mix of people swirling around him provided someone of Eames's sartorial sensibilities with ideal camouflage. A heavily populated area meant a higher chance of getting close to a target without being spotted beyond the typical distrust that lucid dreamers developed about crowds. The planes and edges of his totem, sporadically pressing into his hip as he walked, were a constant reassurance that these were people rather than projections and therefore wouldn't turn on him and rip him to pieces in a bacchanalian frenzy. Even with that reminder, it was only the fact that he also had self-control which prevented the situation escalating unpleasantly when a scrunched up ball of packaging caught him on the shoulder.

"Arthur," Eames greeted him. He was eating something that Arthur didn't want to speculate about too closely - beyond any concern and exasperation over the cleanliness of its wrapper which had been utilised for the missile used to attract his attention. A small mound of bags were propped against Eames's legs; an explanation of his excursion.

"You're shopping?" The question was out before Arthur could censor it.

Eames smirked at him. "Sadly imagining my clothes into existence doesn't seem to work up here."

_He intends to surprise Eames and succeeds beyond his expectations as Eames rolls out of bed and springs to his feet... He's... solid. And trying to act relaxed, welcoming, like Arthur didn't just burst into his room with violence in his eyes. Eames spreads his arms wide in a peaceable gesture - it's a mistake: it opens his bare chest to scrutiny, muscles taut under pale, slightly sunburnt skin, tensed to fight. Brush of hair over defined abs and under the pucker of his belly button... No underwear. Nowhere to hide a weapon. Jesus - hadn't trimmers made it across the Atlantic? Amused expression. Eames eyes flick from him to the room looking for a weapon or an exit. Focus... flick... focus... flick. Standoff..._

Arthur pushed the memory away and looked pointedly down at the respectable haul. "Are you done?"

"One more stop if you don't mind." Eames cleaned the tips of his fingers with quick economic sucks and brushed his hands together to remove any remaining detritus from his snack. "Have you eaten?"

"No," Arthur acknowledged as his stomach rumbled in answer. He'd grabbed what the label had described as a 'fruit smoothie' on the way back to the apartment but he'd been too focused on finding Eames, to eat when he got back and, having succeeded, he now realised that lunchtime was long past.

Eames gave him a long-suffering look which was profoundly unfair given its source. "We can find you something on the way then," Eames informed him. "Hup hup." Picking up his bags he started off only to stop a few steps later and bend down again. The wad of paper that he'd bounced off Arthur hadn't rolled far and he retrieved it with a shake of his head "Mustn't litter, Arthur," he chided.

For a brief, beautiful moment Arthur contemplated the idea of just turning around and walking in the other direction. Any other direction. He followed Eames through the crowd.

The eatery Eames led him to had that new-age, whole-world vibe that made his skin itch at the thought of burlap. He gave Eames a disbelieving look which was returned with one of challenge and a nod towards the handwritten menu pinned up by the door frame.

Arthur would give him that much. After all it would be immediately obvious that the options were completely... tempting. He looked back at Eames who wasn't doing a very good job of hiding his entertainment at Arthur's reaction. He refused to give Eames any more satisfaction than he could help and walked into the premises without a word. He had been mostly right in his presumptions - the man behind the counter had the long, greying hair and natural fibres of an ageing hippy. Arthur didn't care as long as his food tasted as good as it smelled.

He leaned against the counter as his order was prepared, looking out through the glass front of the eat-in area and into the street; watching Eames people-watch as he waited outside. A young man, lean and scruffy in a puffy jacket and knit cap wandered over and asked Eames something. Whatever it was the response was an easy negative. When the man didn't move on Arthur felt himself tensing. Eames shook his head to whatever was being said to him. The man looked through the window and caught Arthur following their exchange. He nodded towards him as he spoke again. Eames drew himself him up, morphing smoothly into the man's personal space with a dangerous grace that made people fail to realise he wasn't actually tall enough to loom over them. Arthur doubted the hand on the stranger's shoulder was as friendly as it looked as Eames leaned forward further to whisper softly in the guy's ear.

His attention was pulled away from the scene by the arrival of his lunch. By the time he'd paid the man was gone and Eames was once more slouching in his previous position. He thanked the shopkeeper and hurried outside.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"Misunderstanding," Eames growled darkly.

Arthur scanned the crowd quickly, nearly reaching for the gun he wasn't carrying because they were in bloody Britain and working for the bloody authorities and he didn't have to do that shit any more. Whether Eames caught the slight movement or just recognised the way Arthur reacted to potential threats Arthur wasn't sure but he put one hand on Arthur's free wrist to still him, grabbed his bags with the other and quickly led them away.

"Nothing like that," he said as they walked "Just a small-time twat who didn't know when to shut up. When I wasn't interested in weed or poppers he suggested you looked like you needed loosening up and had a few party favours on offer if I wanted to have a good night."

Arthur blinked in surprise. He wasn't sure if that took balls or sheer stupidity. He was also rather surprised that Eames had reacted to the taunt.

"You threatened him because he thought we were hooking up?"

It was Eames's turn to look surprised. He halted them in a corner out of the way of the crowds. Some concrete structures offered seating with a view along one of the markets - from that angle it was mostly legs.

"I threatened him," Eames muttered, jaw tight, "because he suggested that I drug you to get in your pants."

Clearly not the time to point out that Eames regularly seduced people under the influence of a drug. Arthur tried to work out whether he should be insulted as he worked the lid off the recyclable takeaway container and dug out the recycled, and recyclable, spork. He was pretty sure that Eames's anger had more to do with the insult to Eames's ego than the suggestion that he might want to shag Arthur. Pretty sure.

"What did you say to him?" Because clearly this was about Eames and his issues and Arthur, as suggested target, wouldn't possibly want to be in on the decision making process. Better let Eames host the next few dream sessions because Arthur was not going to apologise if his subconscious decided that Eames needed to take a long walk off a short pier. The food was good at least.

"If someone wants to party on roche then that's their business - but only if it is _their_ business. I pointed out that I had some friends in the area who wouldn't take kindly to a little shit like him helping to push up the crime statistics around here."

Arthur stopped eating and regarded Eames closely. "And do you?" he asked. "I don't think our slippery friends are going to care unless you think he's planning to drug a royal."

Eames smiled unpleasantly. "Oh yes," he breathed. He looked at Arthur and his smile shifted into something less vicious. "Right - eat up while I make a quick call and then tell me what was so important that you felt the need to track me down."

Arthur ate. Eames drew off a little way, far enough for the pretence of privacy but not so far that he wasn't clearly visible. The call was short but Eames looked satisfied with the result so Arthur didn't ask.

"So," Eames said as, lunch dispensed with, they threaded their way between the market stalls. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Arthur risked a quick look around them. No one was paying them any attention, except for their official stalkers who were politely pretending not to. He really hated crowds - even if they were as good places for him to be inconspicuous as for everyone else.

"We've been invited round to Mark's tomorrow night," he said.

Eames raised his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "Did you put him off?"

"It wasn't Mark doing the inviting."

"Ah." Eames was quiet for the length of three stalls. "So what's the occasion?"

"He's hosting a charity function and we're to attend."

"We're to go to a drinks reception," Eames reiterated carefully, "at Mark's house, with other people?" He stopped, forcing Arthur to as well. "What am I missing?"

Arthur shrugged. "Suitable invitations will be supplied." Eames clicked his tongue against his teeth but seemed to catch on to Arthur's impatience to be moving as they talked. "Nicholas implied it was a research exercise."

"'Nicholas implied?" Eames parroted, leading them around the corner of a stall selling hand made percussion instruments. Arthur wondered if Philippa or James would like one of the large frog güiros they'd on display. He pushed that thought from his mind as they exited the main market area and started down one of the side roads. He was sure he could get one delivered. And maybe a drum.

Arthur looked across at Eames out of the corner of his eye. "Apparently you go to the same gym..." He let that hover in the air between them before going in for the kill. "We had a nice chat."

"Ah." Eames didn't so much look guilty as caught. "About that..."

"Don't." Arthur raised a hand and cut him off. "Whatever you are about to say, don't. I'll just continue pretending ignorance... on the condition I can keep using your membership."

Eames stopped again and stared at him. "That was a lot easier than I expected," he confessed.

"All is not forgiven," Arthur warned him and Eames forged a pretty good approximation on contrite. He sighed because it was that or laugh and it really wasn't a laughing matter. "They have very good facilities."

"I always knew you had a price," Eames exclaimed with completely undue glee.

"We all have a price, Mr Eames. But that doesn't mean we all have the same things on sale."

"Speaking of which..." Eames looked across at the shop they were standing outside and Arthur realised that they had reached their destination.

The shop itself was a combination of industrial storage facility and an external spillage of trestle tables and mobile clothes racks piled high, or hung, with a delirious variety of vintage and costume clothing. Eames ignored the nearest offerings to plunge directly into the dingy interior. Arthur debated waiting outside but, given the light of challenge in Eames's eyes, decided 'how long can he possibly take?' was not a question he wanted to leave to chance.

Despite the hindrance of his bags, Eames was flicking through the racks with the ruthlessness and competence of a first-day-of-sales devotee. As Arthur watched, amused, he would occasionally stop and check a tag or pull a garment, not always male, out for closer inspection. A few were retained but most were jostled back into place. Leaving him to his fun, Arthur drifted towards the rear of the store where the wares on display were accorded more care: each hanging with its own space and in a clear garment bag to allow viewing but dissuading careless touch. Interested despite himself, he spent some time contemplating a rather nice three-piece set that looked like it came from one of the better periods of fashion history. Deciding, alas, that it was the type of outfit he was more likely to wear in dreams than reality he made a mental note of its tailoring and drape and let it be.

Eames was easy enough to find again - the store wasn't that big and he was the one holding up a truly regrettable 1970s shirt that only hallucinogenic drug-use could explain.

"Really, Eames?" Arthur said as he got close.

Eames ignored him although he did put the shirt back and picked up its sibling which was a vast improvement in both pattern and style. That one went in Eames's collection and he moved swiftly on to a jacket that had seen better decades but looked like it might have some room in the shoulders. Arthur wondered sometimes if Eames favoured a looser cut not because it increased his freedom of movement - any well tailored suit would be equally accommodating - but because it obscured his outline and made accurate descriptions more difficult. Clothes were more easily disposed of than bodies, your own or other people's, and if your outfit was what people remembered then so much the better. The suit that Eames was looking at, however, wasn't so much Rat Pack as rat nest and Arthur said so.

"Nothing wrong with a little retro." Eames brushed him off. "You should give it a try." He reached up, hovered over a trilby and then grabbed a fedora from one of the hooks on the wall, depositing it unevenly on Arthur's head with a flourish. "Here. Suits you. Very film noir."

Arthur could feel the too-big brim resting ungainly on his ears. And there was something distinctly disturbing about the way that Eames was smiling at him. "I don't think so, Eames."

"I could see you with a trench coat and a tommy gun," Eames mused, still regarding him with a half-fanciful scrutiny. "Very Eliot Ness."

He was gearing up for an 'Untouchable' joke, Arthur could feel it.

"If I find myself in a twisted version of Bugsey Malone the next time we go into your head I will shoot you," he warned before Eames could continue that train of thought any further.

"Death by... " Eames stopped suddenly and hummed quietly to himself.

"What are you thinking?"

Eames snapped out of his reverie and flicked the hat on Arthur's head, knocking it even more out of alignment. "A possible way to get Mark around his little squeamishness issue. Have you ever done a speakeasy? If not, I'm sure I can muddle one together."

"Not a chance." Arthur deliberately took the fedora off and, unable to put it back due to Eames's bulk, satisfied himself by plopping it on Eames's head in return. Unfortunately it suited him. "I've seen what happens when you 'muddle'."

Eames drew back, offended. "It worked."

"Luck." Arthur dismissed the idea.

"Skill."

"Luck," Arthur said flatly. "And you know it. Although," he acknowledged, "the team did use that luck to the best advantage."

"Due to their experience and skill." Because Eames couldn't let anything drop. Especially when he was wrong.

"Pardon me if I'd prefer a little more emphasis on the experience and skill and a little less on the luck."

"You're pardoned," Eames said regally. "Here - hold these while I go and try this lot." He thrust his collection of shopping bags at Arthur and scooped up the clothes he'd picked out. Arthur trailed after him, reminded rather forcefully of the times he'd been dragged shopping by Mal when she had been alive. He put that thought resolutely from his mind and joined the other friends, boyfriends and partners standing outside the small changing area like so many breathing luggage racks. At least he didn't have to offer his opinion of Eames's choices.

Although that could have been fun.

He turned Eames's Prohibition idea over in his mind while he waited; the dream, not his suggestions on Arthur's wardrobe. It had... possibilities. And a few gaping flaws. Which pretty much summed up all of Eames's plans in their initial stages.

Eames was faster that Arthur had expected. Anyone else and Arthur would have been impressed by their efficiency. However this was Eames and he had personal rules about that sort of thing. It wasn't until they were back outside in the open air that he realised he was still carrying Eames's bags.

They walked back towards the station. The shops were beginning to retreat into their steel-clad shells, tucked up tight for another day, the market stalls slowly emptying of goods and then being packed away themselves. Around them the number of people had slackened - the afternoon crowds trickling away and the ebb not yet replaced with the slick, glittering flotsam of the evening swell nor had the harbour lights of the clubs been lit.

"There's a quite good pub just round the corner," Eames noted. "If you were inclined. Grub's not bad either although you're probably not hungry yet?"

Arthur thought about it. They needed to talk about Eames's idea and that would be better done without an audience.

"Lead the way," he agreed.

Eames smiled, lopsided and without his usual smugness. "You know Arthur," he confided, "we could've been anything that we wanted to be..."

Arthur laughed. "Well _some_ of us are the very best."

"Quite" Eames agreed, studiously ignoring the emphasis. "I always had a thing for Tallulah. Not any more of course." Eames gave a little shudder. "Some things you should never re-watch when you are an adult."

Arthur would have liked to respond to that with the derision Eames so richly deserved... but unfortunately he agreed with him. He did the next best thing.

"I can see a few problems with your plan."

"Hell is not experiencing an unseasonal cold spell then," Eames noted with sardonic derision.

"For starters..." Arthur continued, ignoring him.

Around them the kaleidoscope of Camden Town slowly faded into evening.


	9. Chapter 9

> _If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster..._

~~~~

Mark's house was not particularly grand but it was well appointed and in an eminently desirable locale (second home - remaining time spent at constituency residence - shared with wife, Jane Brydon, lawyer, human rights specialist and son, Azzam Sinclair). It was probably a bit of a let down from an Ambassadorial reception (top line booze and nibbles, shame about the company) but formal enough to show how valued the honoured guests were. Eames handed their invitations to the man at the door (white, 60s, married, hearing impaired in right ear) with an explanatory "Ethan James, Mikel Lisik - Swords to Plowshares"

The doorman checked their names against his list.

"Ah, Captain James, Mr Lisik..." he said warmly (estuary with hint of home counties) and ushered them inside. "This gentleman will take your coats. Do have a good evening."

'This gentleman' was revealed to be a smartly turned out young man, clearly drafted from the catering staff, with only the greasy bloom of late adolescence to be held against him. He took their coats politely, giving them a hard chit in return rather than the more common misused raffle ticket.

"Captain?" Arthur muttered quietly in his ear as they joined the short queue waiting to go into the main reception.

Eames shrugged. "Retired," he said just as softly. "They shouldn't really be using my rank - it's only Majors and up that have to deal with that sort of tomfoolery." They shuffled forward allowing Eames to get a much better look at the rather nice little landscape that was tastefully adorning the wall (realist, Lake district, late afternoon sun on crag and tarn, signed, value 4 - 7k at auction). He pulled his attention from the painting before his fingers started getting itchy and focused on bothering Arthur instead. "Unless you're a horsefucker," he amended cheerfully, "and keep on fingering your four-footed friends as a civvy."

"I..." Arthur began and then stopped. Not as much of a reaction as Eames had hoped but a definite hint of disgust. He'd pin Arthur down one day. "...am going to need a drink," Arthur finished. Eames wondered how that statement was originally intended to end.

"Not quite yet," Eames chided sotto voce. "Introductions first, then you get to mingle with the bar."

"Do not play that game with me," Arthur whispered back, harsh and warning, but Eames just oozed amusement at him and then they were moving forward and it was too late for anything but smiling politely.

Mark was looking particularly dapper. Some people wore black tie well and Mark was one of them. It didn't hurt that the suit had been tailored not to show up a high ranking diplomat in the presence of foreign dignitaries. That it now did duty for a more local crowd did not diminish the workmanship of the construction or the classic lines (a few years past cutting edge but designed to age well).

"Sir Mark," they greeted him, one after another like well trained pets playing sit-up-and-beg.

Mark was good - slight surprise evidenced in the tightness around his eyes and the jerk of his hand as he realised the disconnect between the names he had been fed and the people standing in front of him hadn't been an accidental mistake. It was mostly subsumed by his curiosity, restrained for the present but their next session was going to be interesting.

"My wife, Jane," Mark made the introduction, the slight squeeze of Eames's hand before he released it warning that he wouldn't keep his peace for long. That was fine, they could deal with that later - Eames was much more interested in the woman who had caused such a look of beatific reminiscence when Mark talked about her. Lady Jane Brydon, nee Lavery, was a reflection of her husband with her dark hair, blue eyes, pale skin and intense demeanour offset by an easy smile. They were of an age that the reputed difference of over a decade (07 Apr74, 17 Jun63) was inconspicuous to the casual eye and even Mark's detractors had succumbed to the culturally inculcated acceptance of an older man courting a younger woman in his staff and not held it against him (although, unfairly, she had anecdotally faced some scepticism in her professional life because of it).

"Lady Brydon," Arthur said, as slick and sure in this as in every other situation, "a pleasure to meet you. I was very impressed with your work on capital punishment."

Eames was enchanted - Arthur's soft soap actually drew a blush from its target. Not what he expected from the fearless human rights lawyer whom the press heralded as the next Cherie Booth QC with near hysterical reports that fluctuated wildly between accolade and dire warnings, often in the same paper. When it didn't involve imminent or ongoing death, injury or brain damage, Eames liked being surprised. It made life more interesting.

"Jane, please," she said, confidential and possibly a little embarrassed. "The 'lady' is a bit much." And probably a complete inconvenience.

"Mikel," Eames chastised, letting his accent drift north of the Watford Gap and drop a few notches on the social scale. "Ms Lavery works under her birth name." He took her hand in his turn and shook it, debating for an instance the provocative alternative of kissing her hand. Wrong character he decided with regret and presented her with a winning smile instead. "Although he's quite correct - your work speaks very highly of you. It's an honour to finally meet you in person. Thank you both for inviting us."

And there it was - the little flick of curiosity that they could use if they needed.

"Thank you." Modest without lack of confidence. "It's always nice to meet people with interest in the area." She looked between them, including them both in her response. Whatever more she might have said was forestalled by her awareness of the queue behind them. "We must talk more later," she promised.

Eames let Arthur make the assurances - people often found him more sincere for some reason - and they moved on. Arthur, true to his word (a common failing of his), started making a bee line towards the refreshments (one buck's fizz for appearances then orange juice for the rest of the evening) but Eames caught him with a hand on his arm and steered him to the nearest wall. Arthur followed his lead without question although he did give Eames a brief dirty look when Eames bent down to adjust his shoelace. Eames rolled his eyes and inclined his head slightly towards the line they had just left and the familiar blond head just visible behind a pair of octogenarians (white, decided features, terrors at the local vicarage luncheons), a gentleman in traditional Sikh dress (Probably British-born but with strong family ties in Punjab, artist, believes in his cause, hates public events) and a tall man with a pock-marked face, sober expression and three earrings on one side (sallow-white, ex-punk, ex-user, hair probably chestnut under the black die).

Eames's shoe situation got them through the first two introductions and Arthur's insistence on Eames re-doing his bow-tie got them through the next two. They were close enough to hear the main bulk of the exchanges without being too obvious in their eavesdropping. Arthur dusted some non-existent lint off Eames's shoulder, a Mona Lisa smile gracing his features. It coincidentally gave him a good view of proceedings while mostly being shielded by Eames's body. Their eyes met, warm with that knowledge, and Arthur flattened his hand turning the brush into a slower, slightly less innocent, gesture which would buy them both more time should it be needed. It wasn't.

"Nicholas." Jane greeted him in a tone so polite it could have cut glass. Paydirt!

The distorted reflection in one of the brass flowerpots showed Nicholas dipping his head. "Lady Brydon," he murmured, almost too quiet. "You're looking very well."

"And you." The response was automatic. Eames was pretty sure it wasn't his over-active imagination that added a certain underlying regret in that statement. There was a brief lull in which Mark's voice could be clearly heard greeting the next person in line. "I didn't expect to see you," Jane noted. The silent 'ever' was so resounding that Eames found it hard to believe that everyone else in the room hadn't heard it. He wished he had Arthur's view (give the expert on human interaction the indirect and lousy line of sight - that makes sense!) but when he tried to turn them Arthur tsked at him and refused to yield.

"It was a last minute thing," Nicholas explained (true). "I happened to bump into Mark and he was kind enough to invite me along." (False).

Eames couldn't quite see the details but he would have laid money that Jane gave the socially-appropriate smile even as she wished Nicholas very far away. Or worse. Mark might not have liked the idea of mental violence but his wife didn't necessarily have the same scruples - she certainly didn't pull her punches in her work.

Nicholas moved away with a final bob of acknowledgement, walking passed them with not so much as a glance although Eames was sure he knew they were there. Arthur gave his jacket one last swipe, tugging on Eames's collar in one last futile attempt to correct the impeccable, before stepping away. This time when Arthur led them away Eames followed meekly.

"That was interesting," Arthur said quietly.

Eames quirked an eyebrow at him. "Wasn't it, though? Shall we mingle?" A lightning flash of distaste crossed Arthur's expression but no rumble of objection followed. "Or," Eames went on, "I could mingle and you could strategically size the place up and watch my back."

Arthur went still, ready, eyes darting around the room. "You think we might be in danger?"

"Only of being bored to death." Eames sighed dramatically although he pitched his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry much beyond the circle of his and Arthur's bodies. "Get cornered by the wrong person and..."

Arthur stared at him, no longer preparing to attack anyone except Eames. "You're ridiculous," he hissed.

"So I've been told." Eames snagged two glasses from a passing server and handed the champagne diluted with orange to Arthur while keeping the other for himself. "Now why don't you go and do what you do best and I'll do the same." He waggled his fingers dismissively in Arthur's direction. Eames was sure that the way Arthur cupped his glass, middle finger outstretched as he raised it, was completely coincidental.

"You are a complete asshole." Arthur's voice sounded in his ear, crisp and clear.

"As are you, darling," Eames said to himself knowing that Arthur wouldn't be able to hear him unless he raised the microphone in his cufflinks closer to his mouth. "As are you."

He drifted aimlessly around the room, listening in for any conversations that might be interesting but none caught his attention. There were mostly charity workers (the excuse for the event) with a scattering of political supporters (unsurprising), friends and colleagues. People chatted to people they knew or made serendipitous groups of like, or just randomly thrown together, minds. A few individuals stood around awkwardly or, like Arthur, covered their solitude with socially acceptable distractions. He exchanged words here and there, amiable and inoffensive as he fed Arthur his observations and received Arthur's in turn. Not that there was much to tell.

He met up with Brocklehurst by the reproduction Gainsborough (not a bad effort, paint hadn't been applied quite fast enough to properly mimic the original).

He couldn't resist raising his glass slightly in greeting. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Amazing coincidence," Nicholas agreed, tone dry as the Sahara at noon.

Eames could hear Arthur in his ear demanding to know what he was doing and ignored him.

"This little shindig is all very nice." Good champagne. Nice decor. Avoidable company. "But are we just here to case the joint or do you have something specific in mind?"

Brocklehurst turned, putting his back to the wall, and looked around the room at the assembled guests under cover of taking a drink. Eames mirrored him.

"Do you think you could forge his wife?" Brocklehurst didn't need to specify whose wife he was talking about.

"I'm good," Eames said, making sure his hand was well away from his mouth, "but a 'hello, thank you for coming,' and a handshake doesn't exactly give you a lot of material to work with." He risked a direct look over at Brocklehurst. "What's all this about, Brock?"

Brocklehurst continued to scan the room but his eyes returned again and again to one particular area. "Brydon is important," was all he said.

"To you or to the agency?"

Brocklehurst gave him a carefully blank look.

Eames moved around - angling his body to box Brocklehurst in as he leaned close.

"If I was a curious man," he said in Brocklehurst's ear, "then I would wonder why Lady Brydon seemed to dislike you so much."

"Are you trying to claim that curiosity is not one of your many vices, James?" Brocklehurst drew out the false name in deliberate warning. Somewhere on the other side of the room Arthur had moved on to threats and hissed demands to know what the hell was going on.

"I try not to limit my vices," Eames admitted happily, ignoring Brocklehurst's hints and Arthur's explicit suggestions to back the hell off (such a mouth on that man). "It gets terribly boring. No - what I'm stuck on is whether she hates you on principle or because you actively offended her sensibilities."

Brocklehurst stared past his shoulder as if he wasn't there. "I really couldn't comment," he said, official mask firmly in place.

"She seems a very sensible woman so I am guessing the latter," Eames continued on as if he hadn't spoken. "But that just raises so many more interesting questions. Such as whether your disagreement is political or personal..."

That got a reaction, even if it was only a little one. "Pardon?"

"Intelligent, handsome, charming..." With their close proximity Eames could feel the way Brocklehurst tensed (long time - still familiar - temptation to push forwards that little bit further and see if they still reacted to each other the way they used to). "All those rumours floating around before he got himself a wife and child." He let his voice drop to a breathy rumble. "And you knew him first, didn't you? So many little secrets just between the two of you that he can't even begin to let her in on..."

"You should be careful," Nicholas looked sideways at him, voice soft, a taipan's hiss. "Not everyone would appreciate your imagination like I do."

"For old times sake," Eames asked as offensively as he could manage just to show that he wasn't intimidated, "was he good?"

"For old times sake," Brocklehurst met his eyes calmly, "I wouldn't know."

On balance Eames decided that he believed him. Which was a shame - he'd rather liked that theory. It would have explained things nicely.

"Not that you would say anything else," he pointed out without accusation. He shifted back slightly, giving Brocklehurst more room.

Brocklehurst smiled. "I could say the same to you."

Eames laughed. "I've definitely never shagged Brydon." He gave Brocklehurst a sly glance, not entirely willing to let go of his speculation completely and looking for the reaction. "Wouldn't kick him out of bed though."

The smile didn't slip, if anything it became more amused. "Not even to get to Arthur?"

Arthur? Sure the man was attractive, competent, undoubtedly intelligent, and when he was in one of his less stuffy moods Eames could stand to spend more than five minutes in his presence without contemplating body disposal techniques. It wasn't like he had never thought about it - the hurry-up-and-wait of extraction gave a lot of time for thinking (boredom). But it was Arthur and he was attractive, competent, undoubtedly intelligent and rarely spent more than five minutes in Eames's company without starting to contemplate body disposal options. Over and above the minor fact that he thought Eames was a thieving (true), double-crossing (occasionally), immoral (false), bastard (strictly-speaking false).

"Especially not to get to Arthur." Eames looked across the crowd and spotted Arthur easily - his glare reaching out like a lighthouse beacon and warning Eames away from the danger he represented. "I like my balls attached."

Brocklehurst's eyebrows went up. "So you and he have never hooked up?"

So this was revenge for Eames's interrogation about Mark? Or was Brocklehurst actually serious? Or both? Eames carefully hid the grin - Brocklehurst must have gathered as much information as he could on the jobs that Eames and Arthur had worked together as well as on themselves... if the situation was reversed Eames would have wondered as well. A missing fact, like a missing tooth, niggled and Eames had laid himself open to being challenged about it.

"Again - not currently a eunuch." He didn't know if Brocklehurst believed him or not, didn't really care, but it was definitely time to steer the conversation away from him and back towards the reason they were here. "You're the one who seems to have left his balls somewhere if you aren't thinking with them."

"You've made your concerns clear." Brocklehurst's smile was entirely too satisfied. Suspiciously so.

"And?" Eames said shortly.

"And why don't you go and have a little word with Mark's lovely wife. I'm sure she would be fascinated to make your acquaintance."

Eames raised an eyebrow at Brocklehurst who just looked at him with that knowing satisfaction which, if Eames wasn't the nice man that he was, he might have described as smug (although Brocklehurst was a smug fucking bastard). He had a pretty good idea about where this was going and it was interesting at least. He just hoped that Brocklehurst had a way of dealing with the bloody rogue projection. Either way he wasn't going to get anything more out of the conversation so he gave Brocklehurst the nod and sauntered away as casually as he had arrived.

Arthur intercepted him before he got halfway to his target.

"What are you doing?" he said between the clenched teeth of a cyanide smile.

It really was unfair to Arthur that Eames couldn't help but be amused at him when it had nothing to do with Arthur himself and everything to do with Brocklehurst's questions about their past association. Hand on his, or anyone else's, heart - he had never thought he would find the concept of castration remotely humourous but, in that moment and under Arthur's glare, it suddenly seemed absolutely hilarious.

He put on his best smile in apology although he knew Arthur wouldn't take it that way.

"I," he said cheerfully, "am going to talk to our enchanting hostess."

Arthur's fingers were strong around his wrist, cool and almost damp from where he must have been holding his glass until recently. It felt unpleasantly like the clasp of 'cuffs (when given the choice always go for padded or lined - sadly most law enforcement officials weren't that accommodating... at least not when on duty).

"I thought we were here to observe," Arthur reminded him. Needlessly - honestly, did Arthur think he was completely incompetent?

"I am observing," Eames assured him, "just closer."

"Eames..." Arthur warned.

Eames raised his hands and Arthur let him. Placing one hand on each of Arthur's biceps (solid, firm) he stared into Arthur's eyes.

"Don't worry, Arthur," he soothed, "I'm not going to embarrass you in front of all these new people."

He was probably very lucky that Arthur didn't stab him with the blade he knew Arthur had secreted somewhere about his person. Or, because Arthur was a professional, stab him as soon as there weren't any inconvenient witnesses.

Feeling he had pushed his luck as far as prudence allowed he said inclined his head towards the wall Brocklehurst was still propping up. "I'm just following orders, mein liebchen."

"Go," Arthur agreed sourly.

Eames flashed him a sunny smile and went before Arthur could get the bright idea of joining him.

Jane Lavery (or should that be Jane Brydon, Lady dropped as requested, since this event fell under her husband's professional remit rather than her own?) was having an involved conversation with an elderly gentleman (white, 70s, life-long union man) which mostly involved him talking, her nodding politely and him being enchanted. Eames had occasional moments of chivalry. This was going to be one of them.

"I'm so sorry," he apologised with all the sincerity he could inject, "could I steal the lady for a moment?"

The accession came quickly, as convention dictated it would, and he was left with his target of the night.

"Captain James," she said with less enthusiasm than he had been expecting. Had he interrupted a conversation she had actually been interested in? Her body language hadn't suggested that that had been the case or he would have chosen a different approach.

"Ethan," he corrected. "I was hoping for the chance to give you outrageous compliments. All true, of course." She looked at him with the same expression of interested politeness that had characterised her dealings with the old dear he had rescued her from. Something was wrong but he wasn't sure what. He fought down the edgy feeling that was all Eames and not at all appropriate from Ethan James. "I was especially impressed with your recent work on the need for more recognition of the effects of human rights abuses survived or witnessed by refugees and asylum seekers," he ploughed on. "We see a lot of that in our organisation. Not with refugees, of course, but the effects on the civilian population and the problems of reintegration. Not just a matter of getting people to put down their guns but when they have you have to get them back into a traumatised community. Worse when it's a civil war, and a lot of them are these days."

"I can imagine it is," Jane agreed. Her bright-eyed attention would fool most of the people at the party and it had Eames convinced, at least, that it was not an act but she was still withdrawn from him in a way that didn't read as natural and therefore was no use to him. "I'm afraid it's not really my area. I'm sure Nicholas could be much more help to you than I could."

"Nicholas?" Eames asked, honestly (hah!) confused.

"Nicholas Brocklehurst." Jane was too well-mannered to point, nodding in the direction Brocklehurst was standing. "You were just talking to him."

As Arthur was at this very moment - Eames recognised that well-sprung spine and straight, slicked back hair. His face wasn't visible, thankfully, because as idle comments went that one had just run a marathon. Eames took the safe bet.

"Old Brockles?" He chuckled at the absurdity of the world and its relative smallness as anyone in his situation would, holding his glass a little higher so that Arthur would be able to pick up what he was saying. He'd have to trust Arthur to do the rest. "God," add a bit of misty recollection, "knew him back in the service. Amazing who you bump into at these things." Drop a few implications into the mix. "Wouldn't have thought it was his sort of thing - from what I remember anyway; not the most sociable person... but then I spend more time out of the country than in these days so I guess even if he was the chances of us crossing paths would be a bit low. You say this is his area? I thought he said he was a pencil pusher in the foreign office... Oh I suppose they see all the reports and that sort of thing?"

"I suppose so," she agreed, suddenly less sure than she had been a moment before.

Eames put on a wheedling expression. "I'd much rather talk to you - more interesting, and if I may say attractive..." That was debatable like all matters of taste but it was rare to go wrong telling a good-looking women that she was as long as you made it clear it wasn't a come-on. He lowered his voice and confided, "Would you believe he still thinks I owe him money?" He wasn't sure what she had seen of their conversation but that should cover anything that glances across a crowded room by an untrained eye might have caught (and if she'd had training he was going to have strong words with Brocklehurst for sending him in blind). He widened his eyes. "I'm sorry," he threaded the words with sudden worry (not bloody easy with Ethan James' accent), "is he a friend of yours? I didn't mean..."

"It's fine," Jane excused him quickly. "He worked with my husband in Washington." And that would be a very clear 'no' - always nice to get confirmation. Too late now to second-guess whether he should have delayed his approach. "But you said you spent most of your time abroad at the moment." She sounded warmer, almost back to the pleasant warmth with which she had greeted them. "I'm not familiar with STP - what work do you do?"

"I'm not surprised," he absolved her in his turn, letting the feeling of conspiracy build to inspire future confidences. "We're pretty new on the scene. We work with the local populations in recent warzones to help with the rebuilding - water, agriculture, infrastructure... that sort of thing."

That had definitely got her. Jane looked at him with genuine interest mingled with a growing respect. "Is that as dangerous as it sounds?" she asked.

"Sometimes." Eames admitted, looking down and away slightly as he answered. "The fighting isn't always as over as it is supposed to be and there are always a few scores that need settling." He looked directly at her again and continued earnestly, "But we're better equipped to deal with that than a lot of other charities and after you've done your share of blowing things up then it's good to help build something for a change."

"You're all ex-military?" There was something there - a little tremor that wasn't quite covered over. (Ex-boyfriend? Personal bad experience? Reaction to seeing abuses perpetrated by so-called soldiers in her work? Philosophical objection?).

"Not a hundred percent - but that's our main source of volunteers," he said proudly. "And for many of our helpers it's a good transition to civilian life - we help them brush up on their skill-set and they get a more gentle transition period. Especially if you've been in the military for a while it can be a bit of a shock when you come out."

"Is that the voice of experience?" Not quite arch but edging close - a tentative test to see if he was the type of person who could be joked with.

"Oh, definitely." He grinned, self-deprecating and encouraging her to join in the fun at his expense."I had no idea what to do with myself when I got out."

"So you started working for STP?" Jane guessed.

"Nothing that simple, I'm afraid." He scrubbed his hand over the short hairs at the base of his skull. "It's a bit embarrassing actually. I ignored some very sensible warnings from a number of people and got myself slightly kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" A definite hitch in her voice. "Not here?" Her eyes darted around the room - first to Brocklehurst, then to her husband and then just looking for danger.

"Oh no." Eames assured her quickly. "Deepest, darkest Africa... or at least Liberia."

She relaxed at that. "Liberia?" she said with disbelief.

"I say Liberia," Eames confessed. "It's possible I got a little too close to the Sierra Leone border..."

"Good God," Jane breathed. Her eyes had gone wide as she looked at him. "You were lucky you were only kidnapped. What were you doing out there?"

"Now," Eames gave her his best puppy-dog look, "you're going to think I'm completely ridiculous."

Because the last thing he wanted was her thinking of him as a highly trained and versatile combat veteran.

"Not completely," Jane promised, eyes alight with repressed humour.

"My grandma had died while I was in the service," Eames hurried past that part as quickly as he could, not wanting to dampen the rapport that was growing between them, "and I hadn't really had time to deal with her stuff when it happened so when I got out it seemed like the thing to do. Ended up getting rather interested in family history and uncovered one of the family skeletons..."

Jane nodded, encouraging him on, and he smiled back at her as he began to spin the story.

"My great-granda had apparently joined up to see the world and done just that. Bit of a scoundrel from what I could tell," Eames emphasised this point with a waggle of his eyebrows which drew the indulgent hiccup of amusement he had been been hoping for, "but a fascinating service record - went all over India and Africa..."

"Sierra Leone?" Jane filled in right on schedule.

"Exactly." Eames beamed at her. "Eventually his family put their foot down and insisted that he resign his commission, settle down with a suitable young lady and set about producing the next generation before a stray spear put an end to the family name."

Jane chuckled. "Something tells me that's not the end of the story."

Eames nodded. "A clutch of kiddies packed off to boarding school later and great-grandma and da decide to go on safari for a few years in the hope that the climate will help with some medical condition or other. Only tragedy strikes and great-grandma comes back alone and announces to all and sundry that her husband had died of ague. She then proceeds to rule the roost very shrewdly until the eldest son comes of age, at which point she appears to have stepped back to enjoy an honourable and formidable widowhood. The fly in the ointment was a letter she had written on the death of one of her sons during the Great War - sent to a factotum in Robinsport with instructions to have an obituary printed in the local rag. No explanation - just orders the word to be put out in this one small area."

"Oh my God," Jane breathed. She was a smart one. Eames liked that.

"Exactly," he agreed. "So I investigated a bit and discovered that there was no death certificate issued - none that I could find anyway. Possible as he died abroad but..." Eames let his voice trail of with a shrug.

"So what happened?" Jane said eagerly. She was leaning towards him, not much, just the slight incline of a plant towards the morning sun. "He faked his death?"

"That's what I wondered," he mirrored her, bringing the edges of their private circle in closer. "So I started looking into his life more closely - anything I could find. And I got lucky - one of his old comrades from his army days was a prolific letter writer and his family had not only kept the letters but had put them up online."

The internet really was wonderful, just tell people that you had found information there and most would believe you outright and the rest would question the reliability of websites but never that the information came from one.

Jane frowned. "But did that help?" she said worriedly. "It was many years before, surely?"

"Here's the thing." Eames held up a finger. "From a few of the comments that this other chap made, it looks like great-granda got rather friendly with a local girl. Enough so that it was clearly a matter of some concern and gossip around the officers' mess as to whether he was thinking of making the liaison more permanent. Nothing today, but back then..."

"Completely out of the question," Jane said sadly.

"Social suicide. And not just for him." Eames shook his head. Foolishness and prejudice all around. "So, the family gets wind, calls him home, and the entire sorry mess was considered forgotten."

Jane looked at Eames astutely. "Except it wasn't," she surmised.

"That's my best guess. And as soon as he's back in the area he takes up with the girl again. His wife finds out - or he tells her. She doesn't want to deal with the situation or the scandal of divorce and so gives him a choice: come back with her and leave his life in Africa behind or stay with his mistress and be dead to his family and everyone else."

"That's dreadful," Jane exclaimed.

"I assume he figured that he'd done his duty, as he saw it, by making sure that there was an heir, and a couple of spares, so decided to go with his heart and 'died' respectably. His wife never remarried - hardly surprising if her first marriage was never dissolved - and then when their second son died in the trenches she tried to send a message to him the only way she could think of."

"So you went out to Africa..?" Jane prompted.

"To see if I had any second-cousins once removed or whatever they would be." Eames shrugged. "Don't really have a lot of other family and I thought it might be nice. Forgot I didn't have my regiment behind me and walked right into a situation a little hotter than I expected. So tell me," Eames looked directly at Jane, eyes guileless and beseeching, "do you think I am completely ridiculous?"

"Not completely," Jane demurred, laughing.

"Of course the thing was, when I wasn't worried about being buried in a shallow grave out there somewhere I rather fell in love with the place. Beautiful area. Wonderful people - the ones not pointing guns at me."

"Alright, alright," Jane held her hands up in defeat, "you've convinced me - you're completely ridiculous."

"I got home and licked my wounds for a bit, listened to an awful lot of 'I told you so's, but I knew I had to go back. STP was one of the first NGOs in after the peace treaty was signed. One of my old mates put me in touch with them when I got back - said if I was going to keep jumping in both feet first I could at least do some good while I was at it. So when they went in I went with them. Helped rebuild some of the damage that the civil war had done."

"Did you ever find your family," Jane asked, "after all that?"

"No," Eames looked down at his glass. It was empty, which seemed appropriate. "Tracked down a couple of possible leads, local legends of a white man gone native and all that sort of thing, but I was never entirely sure if I was onto something or if the people I talked to were just telling me what I wanted to hear." He gave a rueful smile. "And of course the official records, those that survived, didn't have anything helpful. It didn't seem as important by then, not compared to the work we were doing."

"How long were you out there?"

"That time," Eames paused, thinking, "about eighteen months. I've been back there a few times since - normally just for a few months. Not as often as I might like but apparently getting out of the army doesn't mean you have to stop taking orders."

Jane looked beyond him across the room and smiled. Eames looked around to follow her gaze. Mark was in deep conversation with a man (50s, veteran, Gurhka, right arm amputated above elbow, dancer? Possibly taken up during rehab) and a woman (30s, butch as a political statement, white-with-a-hint-of-East-Asian, neck and arm tattoos visible). Eames couldn't help his own smile - beyond Mark, watching over all three of them, Arthur stood, feigning interest in the garrulous elderly couple (80s, one white, one unknown, both grey haired, matching blazers) whose backs were to Eames. Arthur must have seen them looking because his forehead wrinkled, brows drawn down as he met Eames's eyes. Jane was still smiling when Eames looked back at her but this time the smile seemed to be for him rather than her professionally circulating husband.

"No," Jane agreed, "apparently you don't."

It wasn't that Eames minded the misunderstanding, it was just another note in his mental profile. But both Jane and Brocklehurst making the same assumption in one evening was a little provoking, even if Brocklehurst was just trying to needle him in return for his insinuations about Mark, and Jane was making them about Ethan James and Mikel Lisik (completely different people). Maybe it was simply that they normally spent time with people who either only knew one of them or knew them both well enough by reputation to know how bloody ludicrous the idea was; being faced with it twice in one night was a little disconcerting. He'd have to tell Arthur so they could laugh about it together. And until then he'd just work with what he was given.

"You must be a great help to Sir Mark in his work," Eames stated, wanting to keep the conversation very firmly on her relationship rather than his. Especially with Arthur eavesdropping on the conversation. An amusing anecdote about the eccentricities of the job was one thing - having to improvise a romantic relationship while Arthur was listening would somehow be his fault. "With your work on human rights," he elaborated. Just to make it completely clear that he didn't mean as ornamental hostess - Jane didn't seem the type whose mind would immediately think that (too much confidence in her own worth) but it never hurt to be sure.

Jane's face clouded very briefly. "Less than you might think," she admitted. "Unfortunately, human rights and politics don't always make the best bedfellows. Politicians make these grand statements but when it comes down to it, it's still all political expediency and toeing the party line. Mark is better than most - he actually cares - but we still have a few humdinger debates." She smiled at him a little impishly. "Keeps us both on our game."

"Sounds like a great help to me," Eames assured her.

"I suppose with you both working in the same area it doesn't arise?"

At least she hadn't named names. Eames chuckled, more at the idea of he and Arthur having a smooth relationship than anything else.

"We have very different styles," Eames explained in the face of Jane's blatant curiosity at his response. "Still, that has its advantages."

He'd meant tactically, they sniped at each other, flame and ice, but it was a tempering process and the result was better for the friction (as much as neither of them liked to admit it). From the knowing look in Jane's eyes and the naughty set of her lips that was not how it had been taken (heated 'debates' followed by hot reaffirmation sex - check).

"It does," she agreed, tone too innocent to be anything but a joke.

Eames ducked his head and thought very hard about every time he'd been called onto the carpet to get a dressing down from his CO until he could feel his ears going red (look tough, fake vulnerabilities when needed - 85% success rate on women with Western cultural backgrounds). The soft look Jane was giving him when he looked up told him that he had succeeded and he was now firmly situated in the 'adorable' category and above any previous suspicions.

It was unfortunate that Mark chose that moment to approach them. Like Arthur he'd probably noticed their attention but had chosen to take it as a summons - whether that decision was prompted by a desire to leave his previous conversation (unlikely) or by concern about Eames spending time with his wife (likely) Eames had no way of knowing. They were sweet together, the looks they exchanged, the little smiles; whole conversations in a few gestures. ('You good?'; 'Yes, you?'; 'Yes. This guy bothering you at all?'; 'No, he's good. Why?'; 'Later'). Eames made small talk, just to see the way they interacted with each other - bodies curving towards each other and the ease offered by the other's presence. Mark was guarded, polite enough, but instinct or logic made him react warily to Eames's presence and that caution communicated itself to Jane, adjusting both their behaviours. Deciding he wouldn't learn anything more from them, not when they were like this, he excused himself.

Arthur didn't approach him immediately, not that Eames had thought he would. They met at last over a nearly empty plate of cheese and black pepper pastry straws that Eames could not eat enough of and Arthur looked at like he could feel his arteries hardening just by standing near them. He handed Eames a flute of orange juice, unadulterated, more was the pity, and helped himself to one of the sad, broken remnants of what had once been a glorious array of finger foods.

"I see your penchant for spinning stories is still going strong," Arthur said with the definite whiff of disapproval, of Eames or of the hors d'oeuvre Eames wasn't sure but he was willing to give Arthur credit for the ability to multitask.

Eames looked at him, offended. "And what makes you think it wasn't true?"

Arthur blinked, surprised, as if the idea hadn't even occurred to him. "You were telling it."

"Now," Eames objected, liberating a handful of the straw fragment from those with less discriminating tastes, "you're just being insulting."

"But accurate." Arthur said, as if that excused everything. To him it probably did. "I also know what you were actually doing in Africa."

"Accuracy in all things?" Eames taunted, ignoring Arthur's little jibe. "Is that it _Mikel_?"

Arthur scowled at him. "What sort of story was that anyway?"

"A true one," Eames stated firmly. Arthur stared at him in disbelief. "Just because it didn't happen to _my_ great-grandfather doesn't mean it didn't happen," he insisted.

Possibly he shouldn't have added that last bit just as Arthur popped the last remaining section of cheese straw into his mouth.

"You plagiarised your fake great-grandfather?" he choked. Eames patted him on the back and ignored the impressive death glare that he got despite Arthur's slightly watering eyes.

"Well - I am a thief," he pointed out reasonably.

"And you accuse me of having no imagination," Arthur said when he had got his breath back.

"And if it had been my great-grandfather," Eames argued, "then I would be being both less imaginative and stealing from history."

"Historical facts," Arthur began, voice low and heated, "aren't..."

Eames cut him off. "Exactly - historical facts aren't."

Arthur gave a thoroughly irritated mutter, not liking in the slightest any disparagement against his beloved facts but unable to dispute Eames's point.

"If it makes you feel better I've changed my mind," Eames offered, unaccountably feeling a little bad. "You do have an excellent imagination." Arthur narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Eames shrugged apologetically. "You just don't have the imagination to know what to do with it."

"And you have too much," Arthur retorted. "What I don't get is how you think you were observing her when you did all the talking."

"And that, my dear Mikel," Eames said smugly, "is why I am the forger."

Sometimes it really was one of the great mysteries of life that Arthur had yet to kill him in his sleep.

~~~~

Mark undid the small, round buttons of his dress shirt with a slow deliberation that had more to do with the long evening than any attempt at titillation. There were times he missed the soirees and champagne diplomacy of his old FO days... but never in the dog hours following a reception when the only thing he wanted was to get off his aching feet and get some sleep.

The soft pad of feet sounded behind him and he could sense the warmth of his wife's body against his back a moment before she wrapped her hands around his torso and pressed herself against him, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

"I think that went rather well," she said.

He turned in her arms and kissed her, feeling her smile under his lips. He still didn't know how he got so lucky but this was one thing he never felt the need to question.

"It did," he agreed. "Did I tell you how beautiful you looked?"

Jane laughed, a light, happy sound that always made his insides clench with fear that one day it would be taken away from him.

"Yes," she smiled. "But it never hurts to hear it again."

"You look beautiful," Mark told her. It had been true earlier in the evening and it was even more true at that moment, her dark hair let down from its formal style and falling softly to her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said with mock formality. "So do you."

"Beautiful?" he queried, amused.

"Beautiful," Jane insisted and pressed a kiss to his mouth. Stepping away, she turned and brushed her hair away from the back of her neck. "Would you mind?"

He kissed the back of her neck between the gold chain of her pendent and the dark line of her hair, the delicate skin with its almost invisible down. The warm simmer of arousal warred with his tiredness. They would make love or they would fall asleep in each other's arms - either would be a perfect end to the evening. He released the clasp of her necklace, letting it slither into her hands before kissing her again.

Pulling the long zipper of her dress down before unfastening the hook-and-eye at the neck he smiled at the familiarity of it all. Once he'd only had to put himself to bed, the occasional indulgence of a snifter of brandy with Nicholas to go over the events of the night before turning in the nearest he'd come to company. This was infinitely better. One last kiss against the smooth flare of his wife's shoulder and he stepped back giving her room to slip the dress down and off, continuing his own preparations for bed - shirt to the washing basket, trousers put aside to be dry cleaned. His dressing gown was soft and cozy around his shoulders, an unavoidable trapping of settled middle-age that he accepted along with the thickening gut it was secured around. In a few years he would be ready for the felt slippers but not quite yet. Not that he would have much say in the matter - with his fiftieth fast approaching Jane and Azzam were probably already conspiring together to present him with the most unstylish, tartan monstrosities that they could find. And he would wear them because they would be warm and comfortable and because it would make Jane and Azzam smile to see him in them.

He looked towards the bedroom door uneasily. Normally he would check on Azzam before he went to sleep, a habit from the days after James' body had been found when they could do little except mourn and wait to see what would be left when the repercussions of the whole hideous business stopped echoing around the world. Tonight there was nobody there to check and it bothered him.

"You're missing Azzam?" Jane said and he hadn't even realised that she had come up behind him once more. It had been so difficult to go the first time work had forced him to stay away overnight but Azzam had been with Jane and that had assuaged the fear. He'd hidden his reaction as much as he could, not wanting to see the guilt in Jane's eyes that had been there when she'd told him that she'd been called away for a few days. It was an illogical reaction on his part and he was damned if either of them was going to be held back by it, either by him directly or by their own sense of consideration in not wanting to cause him distress.

Mark shook his head ruefully. "I know it's ridiculous. The Jacobs are nice and Azzam and Jerry get on so well... I just worry when he isn't here."

"I know," Jane said sympathetically, her hand somehow warm on his shoulder even though he shouldn't have been able to feel it through the think cloth. Then she laughed, "I'm sorry - it's not you - I just heard that word, ridiculous, quite a few times this evening. All self-referential."

He followed her into the en-suite, taking his toothbrush as she began removing her makeup.

"I must have missed that," he admitted, adding toothpaste to the bristles. "Who was that?"

Jane paused, one eye still immaculately powdered and lined and the other mostly bare with just a few smeared shadows hinting at what was. "That nice man from STP?" she said.

Mark made an interrogative, 'go-on' hum around the brush trying to place the acronym with group and person.

"He looked like a bit of a bruiser but he was a complete sweetheart." Jane continued with her ablutions as she talked. "It's embarrassing - I was a bit rude to him to start with. I saw him talking with Nicholas Brocklehurst and rather got the wrong idea."

Mark raised an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, not like that," she scolded. "Although how he can justify helping support regimes that persecute..." she trailed off. "Sorry. I shouldn't. I know you like him. I just thought... I don't know what I thought. But it turned out they served together years ago." Mark stopped brushing his teeth, a disturbing certainty growing as Jane spoke but she didn't notice as she bent to the basin and rinsed her face. Coming up, she reached for a towel and continued, "He was telling me all about his great-grandfather - took up with a local girl when he was stationed out in Africa and then ran off with her when he took his wife back to the area on holiday. He went to try and find if he had any relatives and stumbled into the middle of the civil war in Sierra Leone... so I think he definitely has you beat on the ridiculous front." She smiled at him, fresh faced and light with the memory of a pleasant time spent. "Although I'm not sure his boyfriend was happy about his talking to me for some reason."

Mark relaxed. He had been mistaken after all. Taking Jane's place at the sink as she made the necessary preparations to clean her own teeth, he rinsed and spat.

"Boyfriend?" he asked.

Jane paused before she started brushing, thinking back. "I don't know - I didn't see a ring..." She looked at Mark. "Partner?" she tried. Mark shrugged acceptance of the term - Jane worked more closely with human rights activists and campaigners than he did and was better informed on questions of terminology; the person he turned to when he had to make a speech and wanted to be sure he didn't inadvertently give offence.

"I just wanted to make sure we were talking about the same person," he said.

"The man he came in with." Jane's quick grin told him that she knew it wasn't any help. "American, although from his name, I guess Eastern European roots. Slender. Slicked back, dark hair. Young face but old eyes. Well-dressed - dinner jacket. Very... professional."

Mark's heart sank with each word. "I know who you mean." And really wished he didn't.

"Although I seem to recall he was perfectly charming during the introductions." She chuckled. "Maybe they'd had a little tiff and hadn't quite got to the making-up stage. I gather they have quite a fiery relationship."

Mark wasn't about to argue with that characterisation even if it wasn't the one that Jane thought. At least he didn't think it was. He debated his options - keep quiet and enjoy the rest of the evening or come clean about what Nicholas had told him and Eames and Arthur's place in it. He looked at his wife, so strong and fearless, more so than him in many way, and knew that there was only one choice.

"Jane," he said and she stopped talking immediately, recognising his tone as serious. "There's something you should know..."


	10. Chapter 10

> _And treat those two impostors just the same..._

~~~~

Eames looked around the crumbling landscape with mild curiosity. It had once been a city - which city (if any), was impossible to tell from the ruins that it had become. The silence was eerie, not just the absence of projections but any evidence of wildlife beyond the occasional unexplained noise. Eames squelched his first response in such places: to shout just to hear his own voice echoing between the stones and see the flock of birds that it startled up. There was something about the quality of the stillness that made him want to walk quietly and not discover what he might disturb. (Which would be worse - something or nothing?)

Arthur was waiting for him in the lee of a wall. Once it had probably been connected to other walls but all that remained of them was a tumble of rocks protruding at ninety degrees at one end.

"So, no booze and hookahs this time then?" Eames commented lightly, not wanted to admit how hard his heart had hammered before he identified the movement as being Arthur. Which was silly because any projections would be his and therefore wouldn't hurt him (theoretically). Eames thought he might have detected a flicker of amusement passing across Arthur's face, although it could just have been a trick of the light.

"I felt like stretching my legs," Arthur shrugged.

"Don't take this as criticism," Eames looked pointedly around, "but I think the facilities might have seen better days."

"Race?" Arthur suggested.

"Where to?"

Arthur laughed. "Up," he said and leapt at the wall. Scrambling up he ran lightly along the wall and sprang from the end - away from Eames. Eames hurried around the wall to find that Arthur had landed safely on a pillar previously hidden from his view and from there was eyeing up the distance to another abandoned building with the suspect-looking remains of a fire escape rusting against it. Seeing Eames was watching him, Arthur gave him a challenging little salute and jumped.

Eames didn't wait to see whether he landed safely, shrugging into a South American youth (Columbian, 19) such as he occasionally saw throwing themselves over stairs near Waterloo bridge. The body was long and slim, height still one growth spurt ahead of girth, and the comfy tracksuit bottoms hung low on his hips.

"Cheat!" Arthur yelled down at him.

"Coming from the person who memorised the route," Eames shouted back. "Just evening the odds a bit."

Arthur's "Ha," dropped down to him on a light breeze that rippled his vest top and smelt of dust and decay. Arthur waited until Eames had made it to the top of the pillar before he ran on - using the floating stairway to get to the second floor and an open doorway. Eames chased after him.

Time in dreams was always something of a flexible concept and Eames lost all track of it as he ran. The only thing that mattered was keeping Arthur in sight (1:100000 catch Arthur, 1:100 catch up to where Arthur fell). They didn't go steadily higher, sometimes dropping down to lower levels in search of a better route before climbing again. Eames stopped wondering why when he caught sight of the first projections (they'd had to be around somewhere) three stories below his precarious perch on a decorative overhang. They were bent over something in the road but a rattle of falling debris caused one of them to look up and the blood that stained its arms and lower face were clearly visible. So was the fact that whatever they were eating, and Eames had a nasty suspicion it was another projection, was still twitching. Eames was so distracted by the sight he nearly missed how Arthur crossed from the balcony where he been squatting to the open window opposite (swung across the gap using the horizontal flagpole of a neighbouring building). He would, Eames thought with some relief, be kicked out of the dream before he hit the ground so the fact that his brain had decided that Arthur's personal playground was not just a post-apocalyptic wasteland but a zombie-infested one was just added colour (red mostly, some green and purple). He still nearly bottled the next jump.

Arthur brought the run to an end, finally, at the top of one of the broken sky-scrapers. It was mostly a shell, floors missing or reduced to a few beams and even half the roof missing. Arthur himself was breathing hard, face pink from exertion and streaked with dust and grime from where he had wiped it only to replace sweat with dirt-augmented-sweat. He was also smiling with the endorphin-fuelled high of an adrenaline junkie who'd got his hit. Eames switched back into his own body (it ached less) but had to admit that he felt bloody good. And the view out over the jagged city was almost worth it.

Eames plumped down on the sun-warmed tarmac of half a helipad and relaxed. Of all the things that could kill him here, radiation-enhanced sunburn did not even make it onto his list of worries. Stripping off his t-shirt he bundled it into a pillow and lay back. Somewhere in the distance the city was burning, a hazy plume of smoke the only thing to mar the blue sky. Not having a hat to shade his eyes he draped his lower arm across his face and waited.

"Have you ever considered becoming a woman in real life?"

Eames opened one eye and peered around his arm, across at where Arthur had made himself comfortable.

"Bloody hell, Arthur. What brought that on?" His shock was a little blunted by relief that Arthur's opening gambit hadn't been, 'So, Eames, zombies, really?'.

Arthur wasn't looking at him but that was hardly new. "Something Nicholas said."

"Brock?" That explained... not a lot actually. What the hell had they been talking about at the reception? (Him, obviously) "There's your first mistake. And in case it wasn't blindingly clear from all the years you have known me - I'm really rather attached to my penis and I'd like it to stay that way thank you very much."

Arthur had never batted an eyelash at his forging before, seeing it for what it was - a tool to be used - rather than something to speculate about. He'd had that reaction from people he'd worked with when they realised that he forged women as happily as men but he'd always thought that Arthur understood it was a bit of fun (and an interesting challenge).

Arthur leant back, surveying the cityscape. "So how well do you know Mr Brocklehurst?" he said, not looking looking across at Eames.

(Pose too studied, voice too casual. This was the conversation they'd run from - and to.)

"Haven't we had this conversation?" Eames kept his voice light as well - too serious and Arthur would suspect there was reason to be serious, not serious enough and Arthur would take offence. Normally that wouldn't have been a problem but this time Eames had the feeling it was important - with the zombie-infested wasteland and all. "I met him back when we were both in the service. He was regular army then," _young, spit-shined and sharp as a knife; UN beret matching his shuttered eyes_ "I wasn't." _Mud and blood and flies and other things. He'd never realised how many bugs and crawlies liked the taste of human flesh. Combat he understood, but not mass-murder... Mass-everything._ "Our unit ended up sharing digs with their chaps for a few months. Bunch of Ruperts and Rodneys mostly but some top blokes."

The was a piece of loose brickwork next to him and Eames reached out and picked it up, rolling the uneven shape between his fingers to get the feel of it. Arthur's work was as impressive as always.

"I know that look," Arthur told the sky. "The one between you and Nicholas - it was more than an exchange of favours." He turned and looked fully at Eames, no joking, no compromise, "So I'm asking you again - how well did you know him?"

First instinct was not to answer (prevaricate, lie) but this was clearly not the dream for following first instincts.

"We saved his unit when it got pinned down," Eames tried, willing to give Arthur the answer he wanted but not completely sure what Arthur was getting at. "He helped pull my squad out of a tricky situation. We blackmailed a platoon of marines together. That sort of thing."

That was not the right answer. "I didn't ask about 'we' Eames." Arthur's tone was at its most repressive. "I asked about 'you'. Just how close did you two get 'way back when'?"

That was what this was about?

"Are you asking if I had a relationship with Brocklehurst?" Eames said a little incredulously.

"No," Arthur corrected. "I am asking if the two of you had sexual contact with each other. That way you won't feel the need to obfuscate through a technicality."

Eames grinned at him, trying to buy a little time to work out what the hell was going on. "You know me too well," he joked.

"Are you going to answer the question?"

"You've never been this interested in my personal life before."

Arthur's face twisted in annoyance. "I haven't been in the position of working closely with one of your exes before."

That wasn't, strictly speaking, true. But then Eames was more discrete in his dealings than most people gave him credit for.

"Or at least not when I've also been part of the same team," he amended just to see the flash of repressed curiosity in Arthur's eyes. "In answer to your question - yes. We hooked up a few times; adrenaline, blowing off stream... nothing serious."

_Freckles hiding in the flush of his skin; hard body, hard cock; soft, wet mouth under his; young and reckless, thinking they were invincible when they were just lucky..._

"What's he like?"

_Fucking hard into the body braced against the shower wall, losing himself in the insanity of the moment; drunk on mess port and good company, sloppy and relaxed as he sucks on Brock's cock until he is nose-deep in the dark honey blond hair at its base, Brock's long fingers petting his hair in promise for later; Brock pinning him, laughing lightly, lips against his collarbone, sucking and nipping kisses; hitching his legs higher to expose himself to Brock's view, Brock on him, in him, holding him; hands on his hips holding him down, hot mouth wrapped around him, Brock's eyes glinting at him in the half-light, captivating and downright dangerous..._

Eames raised an eyebrow and grinned suggestively. Not that he'd tell but he didn't really believe that Arthur was asking and the opportunity to tease him was too great to miss. Arthur frowned at him, completely unamused.

Right. Time to move on.

"You got posted somewhere hot, right?" Eames said, sitting up to show he really was taking the conversation seriously now. "How much interaction did you have with the locals?"

"I assume you aren't taking about climate." Arthur looked down at the wrecked city, too right to be the product of complete fancy. "It varied," he admitted. "One tour the only time we got out of camp was to patrol. But there were a few times we worked closely with local groups and aid organisations."

"Yeah," Eames nodded. "Yeah. So you know how it goes. Lots of desperate people - families separated, no food, no jobs, not legitimate ones anyway. Break down of society - all that malarky."

"Black market. Prostitution. Abuse," Arthur filled in. "He looked the other way?"

Eames shook his head. "Stamped down on it hard."

Arthur blinked. Surprised, Eames suspected, by the change in direction of the conversation from where he'd thought Eames was leading him rather than by what Eames had said.

"And this is a bad thing?" Arthur asked, suspicious.

"I didn't say that," Eames chided. Arthur, probably on purpose, had positioned himself so that the hard sun was behind his shoulder and Eames was forced to squint to look at him. "I'm just saying that it was before they clarified the rules and it's a lot easier hiding the fact that you aren't interested in the services any of the girls are offering when you've clamped down on trading for favours on moral grounds."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not saying that was the only reason," Eames noted. "Just that, even then, Brock rarely had one reason for doing anything." Arthur nodded understanding, brow furrowing with dark thoughts but he didn't say anything so Eames kept talking. "I'm not surprised he got recruited into intelligence," in hindsight it would have been more of a shock if he hadn't, "he knew how to think out of the box when necessary and he was good at knowing which orders had to be followed and which could be bent."

"And you can't trust him for shit," Arthur concluded.

Eames bit back a sigh. Arthur really could be very single minded about some things. "If you want to look at it like that."

"How else do you suggest we look at it?" Arthur's voice was sharp, tight with unease.

"It's his job to protect national security interests." Eames spelled it out slowly because Arthur was clearly missing something. "He knows that we know that."

Arthur stared at him with such complete incomprehension that Eames wondered briefly if they were having some British-American English miscommunication or if he'd dropped out of English entirely.

"Are you honestly saying that you don't care if he double-crosses you because you think it's in a good cause?" Arthur sounded like he was trying to see if the words made any more sense to him aloud than they did in his head.

Of course when he put it like that... "I'm saying that we know what his end-game is," Eames said firmly. "He doesn't dick people around for the fun of it or for money or power. That makes him one of the straighter arrows in the air."

Arthur shut his mouth with a click that was audible in the hush of the world. Eames waited as Arthur thought, trying (failing) to read what he was thinking from the little twitches of his jaw.

"I don't like it," Arthur stated, unhappy glower darkening his features.

It was so sublimely petulant that Eames was hard pressed not to laugh. "Of course you don't like it, Arthur. You didn't fire the bow so you don't know where it is aimed."

Arthur shot him a dirty look. "Are you calling me a control freak?" he demanded.

"No more than the rest of us." And Eames most definitely counted himself among that number. "None of us like not being in control of our environment."

He had his own ways of taking control as he knew Arthur did - they clashed often enough.

"You don't seem to mind it," Arthur said, but there was a thoughtful note to his voice as if he was reevaluating what he knew of Eames even as he said it.

"It's when I can't see the leash I get antsy." Eames confirmed what he suspected Arthur was thinking. It wasn't such a big truth to give away and maybe their future dealings would be better for it. "Then you never know what's going to pop out of the woodwork and bite you on the arse."

"Was that another dig at Cobb?" For the first time Arthur didn't sound angry at the supposed slight.

"Oddly enough it wasn't," at least it hadn't been until Arthur mentioned it, "but if the cap fits." Arthur's only response was to flip him off which Eames took as a positive step. "And while we are on the subject of sickeningly sweet lovebirds - what's your take on our client and his charming wife?"

Arthur gave a shrug. "They seemed happy. Everything I've discovered bears that out."

"They did, didn't they," Eames mused, focusing on the first part of Arthur's response. It wasn't that he didn't care about Arthur's research, he was sure the man had put a lot of hours in, he just didn't trust it. Mark was government and had a whole swarm of people he didn't know about making calls and losing documents behind his back... at least until they decided he was a liability.

If Arthur took offence he didn't show it. "You're still worrying about the projection?"

"Aren't you?"

"So, what," Arthur looked across at him, "you think it's all an act?"

Eames threw the bit of masonry he'd been playing with off the side of the building.

"If it is then they both deserve a bloody Oscar," he grumbled.

"So what's the problem?"

The problem was that there was a rogue projection running around Mark's mind like it was its own personal playpen and who the fuck knew what was going on with that? The problem was that it didn't make any sense. "She's not the one in his head."

Arthur shook his head, a look of something like pity on his face. "Did you stop to think that maybe that's because she's in his real life?"

And Arthur could fuck right off with the condescension. As if he was any more interested in finding 'twu wuv' and settling down with the 2.4 picket fences than Eames was.

"It's one possibility..." Which he had considered (he's wasn't a bloody idiot). "But then why Brocklehurst? I mean, I buy your ingrained minder theory, it's just..." There was something not quite right and damned if Eames knew what. The best he could manage by way of explanation was, "...there's something been bugging me about the way that Mark and the projection interact."

"I hadn't noticed anything odd," Arthur said and Eames felt his metaphorical hackles go up but Arthur seemed to be just making the statement rather than questioning Eames's judgement. "What do you mean?"

Eames sighed, temporarily defeated. It hadn't been likely but he'd held out a small hope that Arthur might have seen what he'd missed.

"I can't put my finger on it," he admitted with bad grace. "I don't know - they're _too_ close."

"You think Mark is harbouring some secret crush," Arthur said with complete incredulity, "and that's why the projection is there?"

"That would have to be more than a crush to conjure up a rogue like that," said Eames pedantically, ignoring Arthur's sarcasm. "And it just doesn't fit - Mark doesn't profile as the type of man who fantasises about a big, strong protector to look after him, man or woman."

"Do many men fantasise about big, strong women to protect them?" Arthur said curiously.

"You'd be surprised," Eames answered honestly, distracted from his point. "The whole mummy fixation thing. Inside every macho man there's the little boy who wants the crusts cut off his sandwiches and his booboo kissed better."

"I sincerely hope that that isn't a euphemism."

Eames flashed a grin. "Only if you listen to Freud."

"Your disturbing childhood aside, are you saying you think there's something more going on with Mark and Nicholas than we know about?" Arthur steered them back on course, or at least as off-course as they had been before. "It wouldn't be the first time a politician has married because it was politically expedient. You can't rule it out just because he isn't a right-wing Republican."

"No," Eames disagreed, "their interaction was all wrong for that," but even he didn't think he sounded sure.

"Let me put it this way," Arthur suggested, "if you were forging him how would you play him?"

"I'd play him straight," Eames said without any hesitation. "But," he paused fractionally, "Nicholas is under his skin... in his head. Literally. And I don't know what that means. Or why. And that bothers me."

"Weren't you the one who was telling me he could be trusted?" Arthur scoffed.

"Except where national security's concerned..." Eames reminded him, "...and Mark's definitely in that category."

Arthur shut up. "Do we tell him?" he said at last.

Sometimes Eames wondered what it would've been like to have got out as completely as Arthur seemed to think he had. He just couldn't imagine it.

"They worked together," he pointed out, "I'm pretty sure Mark knows."

And if he didn't, he would soon.

A look of distaste crossed Arthur's face. "For a moment there I almost forgot who I was talking to."

Patronising prick. Why was there never a zombie around to shoot when you wanted one?

"Oh, never do that, Arthur," Eames told him in a syrupy sweet tone. "Who knows what you might say to the wrong person?"

Or maybe there was one, Arthur certainly looked like he smelt something bad. "Fuck off, Eames."

Eames levered himself to his feet. He was done here - time to get some real sleep.

"Unless there is anything else?" he said, expecting a 'no'. He got it.

"Wait," Arthur said suddenly, "you blackmailed a platoon of marines? Our marines or your marines?"

He wanted to talk about that now? He could try and dig up some records if he wanted but it wasn't part of the case which made it none of his damn business.

"Better than those arseholes deserved," Eames muttered darkly. "Our marines would have had more bloody sense," and threw himself off the roof.


	11. Chapter 11

> _If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken..._

~~~~

Arthur let his attention drift from where Mark, Eames and Nicholas lay in a Somnacin-induced slumber and regarded his fingernails with some dismay. Thanks to his rather precipitous departure and the current security theatre that commercial flights required all passengers to engage in, even those in first class, he hadn't brought anything to trim his nails and it was beginning to show. It wasn't as if he went in for a full manicure, not regularly, but self-grooming was the first step towards a professional appearance and, especially when working for influential clients, it paid to be professional. Eames almost definitely had what he needed but that meant either asking to borrow them and everything that would entail, or searching through Eames's belongings when Eames wasn't looking. A plan that could go wrong in so many ways, of which Eames's delight at Arthur being reduced to such skulduggery should he be discovered and the thought of what he might find by accident were two of the more off-putting. A quick shopping trip could solve his problems - if he just knew where to shop. Unfortunately, the infrequency of his visits to any part of the UK beyond Heathrow left him with an embarrassing deficit in his knowledge of British retailers and he hadn't thought to pick anything up when he had landed. He was just trying to decide whether the time wasted while he searched for somewhere that met his standards was worth it to avoid having to discuss the matter with Eames when the sleepers began to stir.

Eames, unsurprisingly, was awake first - blinking with a slow deliberation that Arthur associated with Eames coming out of a deep forge as well as a lucid dream. His hand slipped into his pocket, presumably to check his totem... but Arthur could have sworn he had put it into his other pocket. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably - the lesson plan for the day didn't involve Eames forging and certainly not for a sustained period.

Before he could ask what had happened, Nicholas started awake. Unlike Eames, he didn't return to consciousness with the smoothness that came from long practice but rather with a wary alertness. His gaze immediately fell on Mark who was beginning to stir.

The slight misgivings that Arthur had been feeling blossomed into outright disquiet as Mark sat up. The initial lost confusion that was a normal feature of Mark's coming around was evident in his expression but it was accompanied by a smarting anger that was completely unprecedented.

Whatever had happened, Mark didn't wait for any of them to help him remove his line - pulling it from his arm with a swift, careless violence that would guarantee blood stains on his shirt sleeve. Nicholas stood as well, his own needle removed with barely more caution than Mark had taken, as he moved subtly between Mark and the door. He needn't have worried - Mark moved with purpose but it was towards Nicholas rather than to the exit.

"You bastard," Mark hissed. "Don't ever do that to me again!"

Nicholas looked at him flatly, unapologetic and uncowed. "Stop me," he challenged.

Arthur couldn't read body language in the way the Eames could, so was left to speculate just how close Mark was to punching Nicholas across the face in that moment. Eames didn't look worried, more interested, but that said more about Eames than the situation.

Mark breathed; a controlled release of frustrated tension and the confrontation was over, leaving Arthur no more enlightened about what had happened than he had been before. Mark seemed to realise that his way was being blocked and the glare he gave Nicholas was less angry but much more pointed. This time Nicholas dropped his gaze and turned aside, a clear concession to Mark's demand, although all he said was "Fifteen minutes."

Mark didn't respond, or look at any of them, as he walked out of the room.

In the silence following Mark's departure Arthur commented, "Clearly I don't speak British English as well as I thought. What the hell just happened?"

Eames and Nicholas exchanged looks.

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Why?" Eames asked.

"He's a good man," Nicholas said as if that was answer enough. "If you'll excuse me."

Which, very conveniently, left Eames to answer a few of Arthur's questions without any witnesses as to how nicely he asked.

"Please," he told Eames conversationally, "continue not answering my questions."

"Why?" Eames said, "Are you missing Cobb that..."

Arthur was in his face before he could finish the taunt, hand wrapped tight in the variegated purple-puce of Eames's shirt, pulling the open collar closed against his neck in implicit warning. Eames eyes flickered.

"Cobb still a sore spot?" Eames commiserated. "And here I thought when he sent you here you must have made up."

"We are not talking about Dominic Cobb," Arthur ground out. "You are telling me what that shit was you just pulled because I don't believe for a moment that you weren't up to your neck in it."

"Oh, that." Eames shrugged as nonchalantly as he could with Arthur still firmly attached to his shirt. "Just a little demonstration of how easy extraction can be on an unmilitarised mind."

Arthur let go and stepped away. Eames watched him rather than straightening up his clothes and Arthur counted that as a victory. "You performed an extraction on our client," he repeated. His belongings were back at their bugged apartment but there wasn't anything he wasn't prepared to abandon. He could lose his tail and get to any of the London airports easily enough but that would be too obvious and a single passenger with just hand luggage getting a last minute ticket would send up enough flags that he might as well send out a mass mailing about his movements. The Eurostar would be faster and less conspicuous - get a ticket going all the way through to Marseille making it look like he was heading for North Africa and change at Paris and head east. It wouldn't be difficult to lose himself in the ex-Soviet bloc and it would be easier to deal with any unwanted attention he might have picked up out there. He'd have to steer clear of the UK until he could sort things out, it would be annoying not being able to route through but not dire.

"Brocklehurst performed the extraction," Eames corrected as if that was an important distinction. Which, Arthur realised, it was. He put his plans for a tour of the Balkans on hold in favour of looking suitably unimpressed at Eames's "I was just his glamourous assistant."

The 'ass' bit was right at any rate.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" he demanded.

"In case we needed someone on Mark's side." Eames said as if it was completely obvious. "This way you have plausible deniability and Mark has someone who wasn't involved that he can feel he can trust."

"Jesus, Eames." This was why he didn't take government contracts more often. One of them anyway. He could feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing at the base of his skull. "What did they want?" he asked with all the patience he could muster. Facts were good. More facts were better.

"I wasn't told." Now Eames adjusted his shirt, smoothing out the blast pattern of creases that Arthur had left behind. "But at a guess: they wanted to know what Mark would do now he knows about the underbelly of lucid dreaming. They have him on a tight leash but he could decide to burn his career and go public." Eames's eyes met his with fatalistic understanding. "This was coming sooner or later - with Mark's reticence they decided to ramp up the timescale and kill two birds with one stone. And this way he probably isn't completely sure what we took - he just knows something was extracted."

"We'll find out in the debriefing," Arthur let it go. It was done now and they would just have to make the best of it. "How did you get past that rogue projection?"

That information would be worth all the trouble that this little scheme had caused. Mark would be back, one way or another; he clearly wasn't going to be allowed out of the process as easily as all that. Only now that blasted projection was going to be even harder to work around. Arthur wondered if they should suggest counselling because Mark obviously had some issues he needed to work through where Nicholas was concerned - as well justified as they might be. Although finding someone he was permitted to talk to whom he could trust...

Eames had the temerity to look slightly apologetic. "Brocklehurst dealt with it while I primed Mark. You'll have to ask him what the trick was."

The headache redoubled its efforts to beat a repeated 'why?' through his skull. "You didn't see?"

"Didn't have a chance. Maybe with the real one around the projection just didn't show up?" Eames suggested hopefully.

"It's possible I suppose." Arthur pinched the bridge. "We'll have to check."

"So have you finished yelling at me now?" Eames asked with more hope than expectation.

"No," Arthur had no intention of letting him off that easily. " I'll have finished yelling at you when you've given me a complete run down of what happened. From the beginning."

Eames sighed as if Arthur was being the unreasonable one.

"I don't think we are going to be doing anything else today." Eames looked around the room. "Let's get this lot packed away and I can fill you in somewhere more comfortable.

"There'd better be decent coffee."

"We can even find you a Boots on the way." Arthur wasn't sure what that meant until Eames looked pointedly down at Arthur's hands. Mortified, Arthur couldn't quite decide whether he wanted to kiss him or kill him. He settled for doing neither. It hadn't been a great start but Arthur suddenly felt that his day was getting better.

~~~~

> _Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools..._

~~~~

Mark hadn't gone far but Nicholas had never thought he would - running away wasn't Mark's style. It was too much to hope that the glass of milk he was sipping when Nicholas found him would be enough to get the undoubted sour taste out of his mouth.

"That was a dirty trick, Nicholas." Mark didn't bother looking up as Nicholas closed the kitchenette door behind him. This was a conversation that needed to be both private and uninterrupted. Ideally it would be taking place in a secure room somewhere where Nicholas had complete control over the environment. But you worked with what you had and Mark didn't look like he was going to be particularly amenable to anything that Nicholas might suggest at that moment. Better, Nicholas decided, to keep the conversation low-key and as unofficial as possible. Mark's weaknesses were always at the personal level.

"You needed to understand," Nicholas said apologetically.

Mark stepped closer, abandoning his glass on the side counter in favour of glaring at Nicholas with frustrated wrath. His hands, empty now, curled into fists but he stopped well out of reach. Whether he didn't trust himself or didn't trust Nicholas was immaterial to the end result and either way it would have to be dealt with.

"And now you think I'll go along with the militarisation out of pique," Mark accused him. It was a logical conclusion and Nicholas allowed himself to be a little impressed that Mark was still thinking despite the hurt and anger that was clearly clouding his responses.

"If only it were that easy," Nicholas sighed. If Mark had been anyone else he might have been right - but then if he had been anyone else he probably wouldn't have realised. At least not until it was too late. His response got Mark's attention; he'd clearly been expecting a fight and instead Nicholas was giving him an opening.

"Was it true what you told me about the threats?" Mark demanded. The anger was still there, the hurt fading as the memory of 'why' became a memory of feeling hurt, but there was more calculation than fight in his eyes. "Or was that just a convenient lie so I didn't suspect why you really wanted them at the party?"

Nicholas wavered for a moment. "There are always threats," he said carefully. "There have been a few recently that we found a little more concerning than the generic crazy scribbles."

And Nicholas had made sure every single one of them had been investigated thoroughly and continued to be monitored, not that Mark needed to know the details of that.

"But not concerning enough to tell me about." Mark translated flatly.

"You were told," Nicholas objected.

"Because it was useful to you - not because my family might be in danger," Mark snapped. "I think your priorities might be a little off."

And there was the problem wrapped up in a nice little bow.

"You were told," Nicholas repeated. If he was going to get anywhere with Mark then Mark needed to believe that Nicholas hadn't put his family at risk just to make a point. And there was only one explanation that Mark would credit and so Nicholas gave it to him. "The threat was judged the less severe of the two."

"My being physically threatened is less dangerous than the theoretically possibility of someone breaking into my head?" Mark stared at him as if he was completely crazy. As if he didn't know how many people had already died because of what was in Mark's head. "For Christ's sake!" Mark exclaimed with complete and utter disbelief.

"We've stopped two attempts." Too close. It had been too damn close. Nicholas refused to let any of his fear creep into his voice, retreating behind the safe, secure barricades of professionalism until the temptation to reveal more than he should passed.

"My God," Mark breathed. His hands hung slack at his sides, defeated and empty. Like Nicholas he sought refuge in his role until he had had the opportunity to process it as a person. "Do you know what they were looking for?"

There was an odd comfort in details - it was pure dissociation, of course, but no worse for that.

"We believe the first was an attempt to determine your sympathies in the Middle East." Foreign agents - one dead, two interned on terrorism charges after interrogation. "The second was just dirt-raking." Hired hands and a homegrown scum-sucker looking for something to sell to the tabloids - let off with a slap on the wrist after questioning because they hadn't got close. But if they had...

"And they'd have got it," Mark said, sounding like he was forcing himself to say the words even though he knew Nicholas's confirmation would make it real.

"We might have got lucky," Nicholas demurred as much as he could, "but that wasn't a risk that we felt we could take."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Some of the anger had found its way back but not enough to turn the question into more than a plea.

Nicholas understood, really he did. Now was the time to move closer, to play to their connection rather than the impersonal neutrality of necessity. "I thought you might prefer not having to lie to your wife any more than you had to."

A statement that was true in itself was one of the best lies. It got him a flash of temper which was only to be expected - Jane and Azzam: Mark's two biggest weak spots.

"I don't see why I should have to lie to her at all," Mark argued. "Surely she is in as much danger as I am."

"We've been over this Mark," Nicholas kept his voice soft and reasonable. "There's no evidence to suggest that anyone else is aware that she knows the full extent of the cover up and I'm afraid she's just not viewed as a worthwhile target on anything more than an off-chance; it's partly chauvinism working in our favour, but her job is to highlight human rights abuses and she's demonstrated a commendable willingness to shout about them from the rooftops if that's what it takes, even in the face of political pressure."

Mark's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "That's the real reason she isn't getting protection, isn't it?"

Mark's perceptiveness had always been a mixed blessing and curse. In the grand scheme of things Nicholas had always believed it was more of a help than a hindrance but there were times he felt the need to reevaluate that belief.

"It's true she doesn't have the same security clearance that you do, and frankly it's unlikely that she would get it," Nicholas answered honestly. "But if it was thought that Jane might be at risk of extraction then an exception would be made."

Some type of exception.

"Damn it, Nicholas." Mark didn't raise his voice but the emphatic emphasis more than made up for any lack in volume. "I want to trust you but you keep lying to me."

This was the point where he was supposed to smile and spin reassurances, beg forgiveness and be redeemed until the next betrayal. But that wasn't who either of them were.

"If that's what it takes." It was neither admission or apology. "It's my job to keep you safe, Mark. That was true in Washington and that's true now. This is just a different type of danger."

The resignation in Mark's face confirmed he hadn't expected anything else, but the slight hunch of his shoulders suggested that he had hoped even if he'd known that he couldn't believe.

"There are some things more important than being safe," Mark said.

"There are," Nicholas agreed. It wasn't the time to point out the hypocrisy in Mark's position - Mark was talking about his personal safety and Nicholas understood that. They just disagreed on relative importances. "But that isn't my call to make."

It was the most he could give. Sacrificing Mark, if he ever had to, would probably break his heart. And if that ever had to happen then Nicholas could at least give them both the sop of knowing it had been being for a damn good reason. And if Washington proved anything it was that the reputation of the West, or at least the British and American parts, wasn't reason enough.

Mark sighed, disappointed but resigned and Nicholas knew he had won. "Why do we seem to keep having this conversation over and over again?"

Because sometimes you had to fight for what you thought was right even when you knew it was hopeless. Maybe especially then. Nicholas smiled. You didn't let that sort of potential go to waste if you could help it.

"You've always been very..." Nicholas searched for the appropriate word.

"Stubborn," Mark suggested with a spark of wry humour.

"Determined," Nicholas corrected.

Mark shook his head in gentle amusement at Nicholas's diplomacy but any softening in attitude didn't soften his tone as he said "And so you broke into my mind. What were you after Nicholas?"

Nicholas studied him closely, not entirely sure where this new line of questions was going. "It was felt you needed more than a hypothetical understanding of the risks that extraction posed."

Mark nodded acceptance of that. Turning away he regarded the counter and his discarded drink. With a small humph of decision he opened the nearby cupboard and retrieved one of the many shared mugs that lived there. He picked up a second mug and held it up to Nicholas in question. At Nicholas's nodded acceptance he put the two cups down next to each other he flicked the switch on the kettle before settling back and looking straight at Nicholas again.

"That wasn't what I asked."

Nicholas didn't look away. "I'm afraid I can't answer that."

"What about confirming a guess?"

The kettle was beginning to rumble quietly to itself, a low, anticipatory drumroll that was a long way from its final crescendo.

"How much do you remember?" It wasn't an answer but it was as much of a one as Mark was going to get.

There was a definite defensive curl in Mark's posture, slight but enough to make it through all those years of diplomatic and political lacquer.

"Is this my official debrief?" he asked.

"It can be," Nicholas offered. He'd been where Mark was now and the feeling of vulnerability and sheer bloody embarrassment, as unwarranted as it might be, wasn't something that anyone wanted to share any further than they could help it.

"And if not they send someone to ask with more insistence and less sympathy," Mark said quietly, almost to himself, but Nicholas gave him a short nod of confirmation anyway. This session more than most would be analysed closely. He wasn't troubled that Mark's teachers were being cut out of that loop - he would share with them anything that they needed to know and in the grand scheme of things it was better this way. Unless Mark would find it easier talking to a stranger.

"Alright," Mark agreed, "alright." He waited until the kettle had done its job and they both held steaming mugs of tea before he spoke. When he did it was directed more to his drink than to Nicholas.

"I remember Jane being there. In my office. I think we argued." He paused and looked up. "Was that what this was about," he said, "my feelings for my wife?"

That was an interesting leap. Mark's feelings for his wife had been bloody obvious pretty much from the get go. Why would he think that they might be questioning them now?

"Apologies for being blunt Mark," Nicholas said, wanting to cut off that line of speculation before Mark worked himself up for nothing, "but your feelings for your wife are the least of our interests." Was that relief he saw? Curious. "Her presence was merely a..."

"...goad," Mark finished for him. Nicholas had been going to say 'prompt' but 'goad' would work. Mark's regard flicked down to his tea again, reading wisdom in the muddy depths, and he breathed out heavily. "I take it that was Eames?"

"It was."

"Nicholas..." Mark sounded suddenly unsure. "I remember arguing with her, with Eames-as-her, but not much beyond that. Not really any details..." The definite hint of a flush tinted the line of his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. "Given your position, you're probably the last person I should be asking but: we didn't make up as well, did we?"

It took Nicholas a moment to realise what it was Mark was really asking and much longer than it should have done to try and formulate an appropriate answer. His first response, once the shock of the question had worn off - and when he thought about it, it was a logical question from Mark's perspective - was complete hilarity. That Eames would... but that was only because it was Eames. The situation itself wasn't the slightest bit amusing and if it had been another forger then it could well have been different. Not that Nicholas would have allowed a forger without Eames's oddly specific scruples to do what Eames had just done.

"I'm sorry," Mark said into the silence of Nicholas's hesitation. "That was a silly question."

"No, Mark. It wasn't," Nicholas said firmly. "And I can assure you Eames was a perfect gentleman. As were you."

Mark laughed at his own concern and took a sip of tea. "Not that I suppose it would really have made any difference," he mused. "But it was Jane and... I don't know. I guess everyone likes to think they could tell the difference if the person they were kissing was just pretending to be their wife, if you see what I mean. Somehow that seems as if it should be private, which is rather absurd since we're talking about extracting secrets. What makes one secret more off-limits than another?"

"It's your secret," Nicholas suggested, "rather something you happen to know because of your job."

"Yes," Mark said slowly. "Yes, exactly."

If Nicholas had been the type of man who was given to physical expressions of friendship then he suspected he would've been hard pressed not to make some gesture of that type. As it was, he drank his tea.

"You've known Eames for a long time?" Mark asked.

"'Known' is probably a stretch," Nicholas temporised, "but our paths crossed quite a few times some years back." It wasn't policy to confirm anything but his confirmation was pretty academic by that point. "Why do you ask?"

"I was curious. I know it is none of my business, and completely unrelated to all this, but am I right in thinking that he's as..." Mark paused for just long enough for Nicholas to start worrying about all the possible ways that sentence could end. And he could think of more than a few. "...versatile," Mark continued, "outside of dreams as he is within them?"

That didn't necessarily narrow down the question although the answer was almost certainly 'yes'.

"The..." Nicholas waved his hand down his body.

Mark smiled. "I think I can work that one out for myself."

There spoke the man who had never seen 'Amy' in her full glory, even if Eames had filled out a bit too much to pull the look off in quite the same way he'd used to. Although, that was perhaps unfair - like anyone who had grown up on a diet of Monty Python and pantomimes, Mark was unlikely to confuse Eames's occasional forays into drag as anything but the bit of lighthearted cross-dressing that they were.

"And I assume you aren't talking about his questionable relationship with legality?" Nicholas continued.

"You," Mark said with a significant look, "have trained me better than that."

Nicholas stifled a grin at the note of very improper pride in Mark's voice.

"Good to hear you haven't forgotten everything."

Mark's humour was almost fully restored if the teasing glint in his eyes was anything to go by.

"Is that your way of telling me that you aren't going to tell me if he's gay? Bi?"

Nicholas shook his head, lips quirking in amusement. "I don't actually know the answer. At least not definitively. If you are asking whether he'll flirt with anything that moves, then the answer is yes. If you are asking whether he means any of it... that is a very different question."

Mark seemed to consider that seriously. "Because he's a forger?"

That was probably the least of it. Or rather a result rather than a reason.

"And a number of other things." Nicholas declined to elaborate but he was sure Mark could make a few guesses, none of which he was prepared to confirm or deny. "Any of which mean that his actions can mean nothing - or everything."

"But you knew him before..." Mark began.

_Eames tackled them, sprawling onto the bed. Drawing his knees up to his chest and spreading his knees until the only thing wider than his thighs was his grin._

_"Come on Brock - let's see what you've got"_

"I knew him under fire and in the army," Nicholas pointed out, " _before_ they changed the regulations. Circumstances which have both been known to make people act in ways they might not otherwise. And he was already tapped for special services by then."

He let Mark think about that.

"And Arthur? I mean they aren't together are they?"

"Neither professional or personally," Nicholas confirmed.

"But," Mark prompted.

"Arthur's somewhat of a different case," Nicholas acknowledged. Arthur; so reminiscent of all those little tight-arsed, log-cabin boys who used to haunt Washington looking for validation from powerful men and with the soft accent and impeccable tailoring to match. Which just proved you shouldn't judge by appearances. "He plays his cards very close to his chest. Eames, as you may have noticed, is more likely to lay all the cards out on the table and dare you to guess which are his hand."

"Meaning?"

Nicholas shrugged. "Six isn't sure. But for different reasons. The current advisory is to avoid honeytrap approaches irrespective of gender."

Mark waved his mug in Nicholas's direction in reproach. "I wasn't asking what Six thought."

"No, you weren't." He couldn't really blame Mark for wanting more information. Eames and Arthur had been stream-rolled into Mark's life and into his mind - all of Mark's most personal confidences and flaws laid out like public property for them to pick through. He, at least, Mark had some parity with. They'd worked together for long enough and closely enough that Mark had seen him when he wasn't at his best; ill, mourning, sleep-deprived and hungover - sometimes in combination.

"Lower yourself to gossip with me, Nicholas," Mark coaxed. "I think after this morning I've earned that. What do _you_ think?"

He wasn't even asking for the truth, just for something mildly salacious to make him feel at less of a disadvantage. Nicholas ran over what he knew of both men, either directly or from their largely unhelpful files.

"I think Eames is as versatile as he needs to be - but is a closet romantic." He'd become harder in the years since Nicholas had known him, less trusting and more sardonic. Wielding words and petty annoyances to keep people at a distance. He'd learnt to run alone rather than in a close knit team... but then given what had happened that was hardly surprising. Everyone picked up scars in the field but they weren't supposed to come from your own men. Mark nodded as if that didn't surprise him and Nicholas wondered what Eames had said to him to elicit such a response.

"Arthur," he continued, "is the dictionary definition of practical," Mark nodded along, "but he hasn't quite rid himself of the little inconveniences of loyalty and trust." Anyone who dropped a successful and mostly legal business to keep a self-destructing man together in the name, as far as anyone could tell, of friendship was either incredibly loyal, incredibly stupid or playing their own game. Arthur wasn't stupid and if he'd been going for the long-con it had been so good no one had worked out what it was yet. Which left loyalty as the most likely explanation. "To people," he qualified, "not ideals, he's been already been betrayed by the latter and I doubt he has any intention of allowing it to happen again. I'd be willing to bet that he's already made a similar self-analysis and so keeps himself removed as much as possibly so as not to let himself get too close, knowing his weakness." Arthur didn't strike him as a 'shame on me' type of guy. "There are, of course, the occasional slips." Elena, the Cobbs, Nickoli... there were even rumours of an American girl Arthur had met in Paris. "All of which makes them both very good at what they do. And yes, if they ever decided the risk was worth it, and teamed up - either on the job or off it - they'd be a formidable partnership. Or kill each other within six months."

And that would probably be the main reason they'd be left alone if it happened - everyone too curious to see how it played out when both men had hovered around mutually assured destruction for years.

Mark laughed, delighted. "Do you think they will?"

"Kill each other?" Nicholas pretended to misunderstand just the see the amused scowl that it would engender. "It's a possibility. They're currently doing a very good impression of a pair of hedgehogs, however they both have their own reasons to act prickly." _'Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps,'_ Nicholas smiled to himself. "Or possibly either or both aren't interested but they enjoy the game of pulling each other's pigtails."

"You'd noticed that as well?" Mark said. He walked over to the tap and rinsed his mug out. "I wondered if it was me."

He eyed the milk he hadn't finished. There was a bit over half a glass left.

"Thus the curiosity?" Nicholas asked as Mark picked the glass up and downed the contents quickly.

"Oh, no." Mark wiped away the non-existent milk moustache and rinsed the glass. "That was Jane. After the reception she mentioned them and thought that they were together."

"Oh?" Nicholas took his turn at the sink, washing away the last few centimetres of tea. It had cooled below the temperature he favoured and he'd been drinking it as much to keep Mark company and create a bond as for the tea itself.

"I'm afraid I told her they were independent security contractors," Mark admitted. "She isn't very pleased with either of us. And I'd keep Eames well out of her way. She liked him."

As such things went, it could have been worse. Although it added inadvertent insult to the injury of the extraction. Unfortunate but acceptable.

Nicholas put his mug down next to Mark's to dry and turned to face him. "I hope you blamed me.

There was no point in asking why Mark hadn't told him this sooner, and it wouldn't really have made any difference if he had, but this was the type of information that Nicholas needed to know. Something of which Mark was well aware by the slightly shame-faced cast to his expression.

"No." Mark looked almost insulted by the idea that he should have passed the blame on, even if they both knew it belonged firmly elsewhere. "I think she blamed you anyway," he offered with chagrin.

Nicholas had to smile at that. "Your wife is a wise woman."

"Apparently not," Mark disagreed fondly. "She married me."

"Mark." Nicholas said, waiting until he had Mark's full attention before continuing. "You know that you have to complete this militarisation, don't you? For her sake, and Azzam's."

"So everyone keeps telling me." The frustration was clear in his voice but most of the fight was gone.

"And you think we're wrong?" Nicholas asked gently.

"Damn it," the words had the snap of something fundamental breaking.

'It is necessary,' Nicholas thought, almost wishing he could give some comfort but knowing he could not afford any compromise. 'I'm so sorry Mark, but it is necessary."

"Alright," Mark said and the weariness and defeat in his tone almost made Nicholas wish he was a better person. Almost. There was too much at stake for sentimentality. "I'll do it." Mark looked Nicholas directly in the eyes, still defiant in his surrender. "Tell whoever you need to tell and I'll shoot Eames and Arthur and whatever figments of my mind they tell me to shoot. But not today, Nicholas, not today."

It was a statement not a request. Nicholas nodded. He had won his concession - it was no bad thing to give one back in return.

"Alright," he echoed Mark's acceptance; saw the flicker of recognition and understanding in his eyes. "Not today."

It would give him time to report in.


	12. Chapter 12

> _Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken..._

~~~~

"I'm back," Arthur told the apparently empty flat. Which was odd because Eames had assured him that he wasn't planning on pulling a disappearing act this time. But this was Eames.

Arthur put his gym bag back down by the door and went to check for dead bodies. Eames wasn't dead - but he was asleep. When Eames had said he might work on the level for Mark's next training session Arthur hadn't taken him particularly seriously. Apparently he was wrong. Arthur weighed his options; he could wait for Eames to wake up, there were only a few minutes left of the clock, or he could go down and join him. His body felt well exercised, it would do no harm to put his mind through its equivalent paces. Plus, he was a little curious to see what Eames had come up with.

Sinking into the couch Arthur plugged himself in...

It was London, except it wasn't.

The sky was blue in a way Arthur had never seen in London, or any other place north of the Tropic of Cancer. A scattered flock of fluffy clouds wandered like lonely sheep around their vast celestial field. He turned around, trying to orient himself. Judging by what he could see he thought he was at the approximation of the station-end of Waterloo bridge. Behind him the iMax cinema had been replaced with a big top tent, the traditional call-to-show music wheezing out from between the flaps of brightly coloured canvas. Beneath his feet the road glinted dully and he scuffed at it with his shoe. Only Eames would pave London's streets with gold.

The prickle of being watched raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He looked up to find a gigantic fox, Arthur estimated a good fifteen feet at the shoulder, peering down at him from where it crouched on the roof of what would be the Southbank centre. Its tongue lolled, pink and wet, from between sharp white teeth as it yawned. It settled down, lazy in the warm sunshine, eyes half-closed. Arthur was sure it was still tracking him.

He was also pretty sure that this wasn't the scenario that Eames had mentioned which left him with something of a dilemma. He could kick himself out of the dream and hope Eames wouldn't be any the wiser, or he could go and find Eames and explain his mistake and what he was doing there. Dropping into another lucid dreamer's mind was the height of bad manners and Eames might not care about such niceties but he did.

"Excuse me." Arthur stopped one of the passing projections. He was short, barely coming up to Arthur's chest, and had russet skin and dark, bushy hair that covered the best part of his lower face.

"My Lord of Winter Clear," the projection said, surprised, and bowed quickly.

Arthur blinked. "Why do you call me that?" he asked before he could think better of it.

The projection straightened again, "Because it's your title, m'lord."

That was the problem of dealing with projections. "Do you know how I came by that title?" Arthur tried.

The projection looked at him strangely - not angry, not yet, but a little agitated. "You were named so by My Lord's fool as we all are."

That had to be Eames. Why Eames saw himself as the fool in this little scenario... Later. Arthur could worry about that later when he had a better idea on the details.

"I should pay my respects," Arthur said, "M'Lord is..." he trailed off.

"...at the Courts," the projection finished brusquely, peering at Arthur suspiciously from under heavy, sullen brows. Arthur hadn't missed the way his eyes had flicked over the bridge as he spoke.

And any fool worth his salt ration would be close to his patron.

"Yes," Arthur agreed, trying to placate the projection a little, "of course." A thought occurred to him. "Did you know why I was given that title in particular?"

The projection glared at him furiously and walked away. 'Okay,' Arthur decided, 'screw the niceties - time for plan C'. A little payback for Eames breaking into his dream when he'd first arrived.

Big Ben ticked anti-clockwise as he walked across the bridge. Below him the river ran clear enough to let him see the golden sand of the bed and what looked like merpeople playing hide and seek among the long, green fronds of the river-grass.

A shadow fell over them all causing the creatures in the river to scatter and hide. Arthur looked up. A giant grey bird, wingspan as wide as a jumbo, glided over them and settled delicately between a cluster of buildings in the near-distance. It drew one leg up and settled down, becoming one more component of the skyline. Arthur frowned as he realised that more of the cityscape than he'd initially thought was made up of living creatures. Birds - cranes - and Arthur really worried about Eames on occasion - stood in solitary splendour, necks stretched out as they picked crumbs off gingerbread houses. Round the bend of the river a millipede stretched from one bank to another, the projections wandering across its back indifferent to the occasional shake as it lifted one leg to scratch another. Black cat-cabs with large, luminous, headlight eyes, ran lightly between centaur-drawn hackneys and even more bizarre creatures. Over his shoulder the OXO tower blinked, ruffled its feathers and tilted its head to the other side.

Arthur had a sudden mental image of what the talons of a building-sized raptor could do if the projections got fractious and re-evaluated his plans back to B, with a minor variation. There wouldn't be any harm in his asking a few minor questions on his way to Eames. He still hurried a little as he crossed the bridge - it also wouldn't hurt to be slightly less out in the open.

The bridge emptied out into the Strand. A troubadour on the corner was singing something proscribing all maidens in the vicinity from going somewhere or other. Arthur tuned it out. It didn't apply to him - for multiple reasons. Of more interest was the motley crowd of projections that had gathered to listen. They ran the gamut from tall - over seven foot and scarlet-hued - to small enough to fit on the palm his hand, delicate, stained-glass wings beating with the speed of a hummingbird's heart.

Arthur approached the nearest projection. She - or he, Arthur wasn't entirely sure - was tall, but only a little over six foot, and so willowy that he - or she - seemed to sway in the barely-there breeze. A trick of the light material that the projection was wrapped in. Probably. Her - or his (although it could be neither, or both) - skin was burnished walnut in tone, what Arthur could see at arm, torso and leg because his - or her, etc - face was largely hidden by flaxen-green hair. Assuming there was a face under there.

The projection was on the edge of the audience and looked close to breaking away which made it less likely that they would take offence simply due to Arthur's advance. Arthur bowed because it was always better to start polite and this seemed to be the place for it.

"What is winter to you?" Arthur asked bluntly, knowing he would probably only get one question.

"Sleep," the projection sighed. "Long, monotonous days of waiting." And then they turned and walked away.

That was... uninformative. And possibly a bit insulting.

Arthur walked on, asking each projection he met as he walked the same question. Some refused to answer, turning away from him or pushing past him with rude, unfriendly glares. Slowly the answers built up:

"Deadly."

"Cold."

"Cuts you to the bone."

"Sterile."

"Unforgiving."

"Bleak, barren..."

Arthur stopped asking.

He ended up standing outside the building that mirrored the Royal Courts of Justice in the real world, the 'of Justice' missing on this version. Arthur looked up to the twin statues - male and female, gazing away from each other at opposing horizons - which Eames had replaced the central spire with. Like the statue of Justice that stood far atop the Old Bailey, the shadows from their crowns gave the false impression of blindfolds over their deep set eyes.

As a pointman, it was part of Arthur's job was to ensure that he, and whoever he was working with, never came near a courtroom unless they were extracting from the judge. So while had walked down the Strand he hadn't lingered near either building. Sure, they were interesting as buildings but he'd never developed a passion for architecture beyond the most practical. Eames, conversely, seemed to have studied both in some detail. Arthur added 'why?' to the long list of questions he would fail to ask Eames before one of them died.

By the entrance, an old woman sat, hawking apples from a basket that slithered round on itself in a way that Arthur found more than a little troubling.

"How much?" he asked her.

The wrinkled face split like a walnut at the seam, breaking into a gummy smile. "An apple or a truth?"

"I think I've had enough truth."

"Ah," the projection nodded to herself. "You were asking about the seasons."

Arthur didn't want to know how she knew that. "Just one."

"Why did you stop?"

"I got my answers," he said curtly; it was too much to hope that would be the end of it, she was one of Eames's projections after all.

"Did you?" Her crow-dark eyes glittered with secrets. "This is the realm of the fae." She opened her hands, empty fingers narrow and gnarled with age. "You should know not to trust anything you see or hear." Her hands closed and opened again; a red apple sat in her palms. "Everything is glamour and illusion."

"Including you?"

Her laugh held the impish joy of one who'd seen enough of the world to find it a source of endless amusement. "Especially me," she agreed. "But you know what they say about the best lies?"

Arthur bit back a sigh, regretting starting the whole conversation. He could walk away but projections could turn in an instant and he didn't want to cause any more disruption to Eames's dreamscape than necessary. Eames was unlikely to do anything beyond teasing him about his mistake but riling his projections was a sure way to make himself look guilty of something.

"Hidden between two truths?" he suggested, not quite managing to keep all of his indifference to himself.

The projection didn't seem put off by his attitude.

"And if you don't have two truths to hide it between," she confided, "then half a truth can be the best lie."

If she was implying what he thought she was implying...

"And how do I know you aren't one of the lies?"

She leaned forwards. "Every faerie land has its True Thomas."

"You don't look like a Thomas." She looked as if she had a step-daughter to poison.

"And you don't look as if you belong here," she shrugged, "we all have our crosses to bear."

"Why are you telling me this?" Arthur demanded suspiciously. Because one way or another she was Eames and Eames never just gave up information - not unless it benefitted him in some way.

"I'm old," the projection said, "I can't be bothered with all this intrigue and drama." She looked at him intently. "Ask me."

"What is winter to you?" Arthur held her eyes.

She smiled. "Hard work." It was a challenge.

Arthur thought he had an idea where this was going. "Why?"

"Short days." The old woman chuckled to herself. "Of course short days mean long nights. Nothing like the cold outside to make you appreciate a long night snuggled up by the hearth with your sweetie."

And apparently he was wrong. "What?"

"Like there's no one else in the world," she said hushed and lost in her memories. Then she blinked and focussed on him again. "What other answers did you get?"

"Cold," Arthur admitted.

The projection flapped a hand, dismissing the response. "Puts colour into your cheeks," she insisted. "And a perfect excuse for hot chocolate."

"Cuts you to the bone," Arthur quoted.

"Sharp as a knife."

"Sterile."

"Clean."

"Unforgiving."

"Meticulous," the projection looked him over, "doesn't suffer fools."

"Bleak and barren."

"Have you never watched a winter's sunrise?" she demanded. "The bare trees against the empty sky? Bleak can be beautiful." She raised a bushy, white eyebrow at him daring him to contradict her. "Winter is so picturesque from a distance, all the little imperfections of the world hidden under the snow, but it's not just skin deep - the real beauty is in the things most people don't see, the snow flakes and ice crystals, the little things... the smallest details."

Arthur decided he wasn't going to think about that one - he wasn't sure he didn't prefer the original interpretation.

He finished with the less disturbing, "deadly."

"Not everything has a hidden meaning," she tsked at him.

Arthur could live with that. "So which are the lies?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" She looked at him, crinkled face and sharp, deep, eyes. Somewhere between indulgent auntie and a Moira who had wandered away from her sisters. "Or maybe it all is." She had Eames's smile, giving away everything and nothing. "Have you ever lived through a British winter? It's just like the rest of the year except maybe a bit more damp and dreary. Nothing special at all." She must have seen something in his eyes because her amusement deepened. "Now you probably want to shoot me - just to be sure I really am what I seem."

Arthur frowned. Most projections weren't aware of what they were - the dream was their reality. But that was the second time that she had alluded to the fact that it wasn't. She was right - he should be suspicious but Arthur just had a feeling that she wasn't Eames fucking around.

He looked around, they'd drawn a few spectators with their conversation, or possibly just due to his presence. "Won't that upset the others?"

"Probably not." She thought about it and beckoned him closer. "They don't like me very much," she confided.

"Unless you're lying," Arthur pointed out.

She reached out and patted his cheek. "You do catch on fast, don't you?"

Arthur stepped back and made his decision. "Is Eames inside?"

"Of course he is, dear." He was amusing her now. He nodded his thanks and turned to leave. "Oh my Lord..." Arthur wasn't sure if it was an exclamation or an address but it was obviously aimed at him so he turned back, "...don't forget your apple." She tossed the apple from her hand to him and he caught it from habit.

"You never named your price," he reminded her - holding the apple back out to her.

"A kiss," she said, then changed her mind. "Two: one for the apple and one for the answers."

Arthur was about to reassess his belief that he wasn't talking to a forged-Eames having a joke at his expense when the old lady turned her head and tapped her finger against her cheek. That was different, anyway. Half-convinced he was being pranked, Arthur dropped a quite, dry kiss on each creased cheek. He put the apple in his pocket. This time no one tried to stop him as he entered the gate to the Faerie court.

It was easy to find where he needed to go since there were no mazes or obfuscation to block his way. The throne room was set up where he imagined that the courtroom one would be and he had to remind himself very sternly not to start checking the details when they got topside. This was not a job and Arthur did not need to fact-check.

The room was cavernous, an image enhanced by the keystones of the marble rib vaulting which hung low, scrolls and ivy leaves sculptured into the pale stone. Attendants of various races, clothed in everything from full court regalia to their own fur, swirled around the floor in a kaleidoscope of ever splintering and coalescing cliques. Any hope Arthur had of sneaking in quietly was quashed when a herald by the door cleared his throat and announced, "Arthur, Lord of Winter Clear," in a ringing voice.

The court stilled, all the faces turning towards him like poisonous flowers towards the sun. Arthur bowed.

"My Lord of Winter Clear," Oberon rumbled from his throne. "We had not summoned you to our presence."

He stood, solid and powerful, the image of the master of the wild hunt as he strutted forward on satyric shanks. A diadem of woven ivy circled his sun-kissed head. The crowd melted away before him, each person dropping to bended knee as he passed. With an uncomfortable sinking feeling, Arthur acknowledged that Oberon bore rather more than a passing resemblance to Cobb around the face. He couldn't stop himself looking back to the raised dais. Thankfully, Titania's throne was empty.

He copied the rest of the court, falling to one knee in deference as Cobberon drew close. That was a mistake. Cobberon's chest was bare except for a baldric that matched the coronal, the rest of him was only covered by the golden fleece of curled hair that coated his lower extremities. For Dom's sake, Eames's sake and most of all for the sake of his sanity, Arthur did not want to know if all the proportions of the remaining human parts of his anatomy were based in any way on real life. Either way, Arthur had eye-level proof of Eames's subconscious' rather vicious opinion their shared associate.

"My Lord," Arthur said formally, bowing his head further and fixing his eyes very firmly on the ground. He told himself sternly that it really wasn't funny. "I wonder if I might beg a moment with your fool."

"Goodfellow," Cobberon voice was the shake of summer thunder. "What say you?"

Eames stepped out from behind the high throne, dressed in a particoloured hose and hooded cape. He made a florid bow with practised ease. "What would a Lord want with a merry sprite such as I?" His smile didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. "Unless he crave a smile and jest such as the wanderer provide. In those things I give good measure freely."

Cobberon grunted. "In those things," he agreed. "Go."

Arthur rose smoothly as Eames walked forwards to join them, not wanting to linger any longer than necessary. "Treat him well or face my wrath," Cobberon said quietly.

Arthur twitched, caught by surprise at the low, rough voice, and stammered agreement

Cobberon nodded, apparently satisfied by the result.

"Some Lords would take when they need but ask, and, though it pleases him to play a fool, tis a bigger fool who sees not the mask."

He turned away, leaving Arthur to wonder what the hell was going on. Eames caught him by the arm and hustled him out of the room.

"He can be a bit capricious," Eames murmured softly. "Let's go before he changes his mind."

Arthur frowned, beginning to resist. "Isn't he your projection?"

They stopped in the passageway. Eames released Arthur's arm and turned to face him. "Your point?"

Arthur didn't have an answer to that.

"Come on," Eames said, and led him out into the sunshine. The old woman was gone. Arthur wasn't sure if he should be relieved or disappointed about that. A small part of him, the part that triple-checked everything, would have been happier to see her and Eames together. Just to be sure.

They retraced Arthur's steps back down the Strand, saying nothing. The troubadour on the corner of Waterloo bridge was still singing. Arthur had a nasty suspicion that he only knew the one song.

"...At the end of seven years they pay a tithe to hell. I so fair and full of flesh and feared it be myself..."

They ignored him.

"Where..?" Arthur began but Eames shook his head and Arthur subsided.

The London Eye blinked as they approached it, the pupil swivelling around to look at them.

"One," Eames said. He flipped a coin into a nearby birdbath. The river churned, a large bubble emerging slowly from the water. "Come on," Eames looked over his shoulder, checking Arthur was still with him, and then stepped through the iridescent skin. Arthur gaped at him then shook his head and followed. The surface of the bubble resisted him, bending under his touch... then his hand was inside, the film sealing itself around his fingers and slipping down to his wrist. It was rather like... Arthur caught Eames amused expression and resolutely didn't finish that thought. He pushed forward, feeling the line of slick-slide tension of his passage into the bubble move over him and then snap away.

Eames sat down, lounging against the side of the bubble as it rose slowly into the air. The climb was smooth but not so smooth that Arthur was confident about his footing. He sat down facing Eames, pleased to find that the elasticity of their ride made for a comfortable accommodation. Arthur watched with carefully concealed appreciation as the vista of Eames's dream world revealed itself.

"So," Eames said, amiably enough, "taken up dream-jacking now?"

"I thought you were working on the dream for Mark," Arthur defended himself.

Eames thought about that.

"You got home early."

"I got lucky on the trains."

"Ah." It was more a breath than a sound, contemplative.

"Why did you bring us here?" Arthur asked.

"I like the view," Eames said. "I don't normally have anyone to share it with."

They were high enough that it was hard to make out individual projections, the normal sized ones at least. Arthur could see the curled brush of tail and brown-burnt auburn haunch of the fox, lazing in the sun, and stately lines of cranes dotting the skyline. Everything within the expanded horizon could be seen clearly through the thin walls of their transport; a toyset world of gradually diminishing gauges. Something to be seen but not touched. And in the relative safety of their floating bubble, not touched by. It was, Arthur supposed, a slightly silly question and one that deserved its off-hand answer. A better question would have been 'why did you bring us here rather than just kicking us out of the dream?' but Arthur thought of their well-appointed apartment, complete with the latest in surveillance, and knew the answer to that one as well.

He took out the apple he'd got from the old woman and polished it against his jacket. It looked nice enough. He pulled out his boot knife and cut a slice, settling back to enjoy the view.

"Do you want some," he offered.

Eames glanced over and surged forward, catching Arthur's arm before he could put the first slice in his mouth.

"Eh, eh," Eames chided, "don't you know not to eat anything from faerie land. Not if you want to ever leave."

Arthur paused, looking between the apple in his hand and Eames as he realised what Eames was implying. Eames's hand closed over his and he let Eames take the fruit from him. "Do you have many of those little gotchas around here?"

"A few," Eames admitted, not sounding particularly sorry. "But may I remind you no one else was supposed to be down here. Anyone not invited comes at their own risk."

"If you are angling for an apology you are going to be waiting for a long time," Arthur hadn't meant to snap, not least because Eames was right, but the sick shock of how close he had come to falling for whatever trap Eames's mind had laid made him sharp.

"For you, Arthur," Eames proclaimed insincerely, one hand pressed to his chest, "I would wait..."

"Don't bother," Arthur cut him off, the sarcastic words echoing too closely to the projection's earlier.

"On the subject of inviting yourself into your colleagues dreams." Eames tossed the apple from one hand to the other, the pale stripe of the slice spinning across the red peel. "Was it you that blacklisted Ariadne?"

Arthur frowned at the unexpected shift and wondered briefly if he should offer some defence - of Ariadne or himself. He'd had a word with her when he'd realised, too late, that she hadn't known the conventions she'd been innocently breaking, such as not inviting yourself into your colleague's dreams. Although that was rich coming from Eames whose understanding of personal mental space was about the same level as his concept of property ownership. And, after all, Ariadne'd acquitted herself very well on a difficult first job, getting through to Cobb in a way that Arthur hadn't managed, and if she ever wanted to leave architecture then she had an equally bright future as an extractor obtainable with a little training. Arthur had seen, and worked with, worse. They'd had a long discussion, Ariadne and he, but one had to spend the time waiting for the timer on a long job to run down somehow even when one had performed a miracle. He'd certainly never held her ignorance against her. All of which Eames well knew. The question had also, Arthur realised belatedly, not been said as an accusation.

"Ariadne isn't blacklisted," Arthur objected. "She's on a job at the moment."

"Ah, yes," the apple slapped down into Eames's palm. "The rehabilitation clinic in Copenhagen. I misspoke." Then the apple was gone, Eames's fingers moving fast enough that Arthur missed where he'd secreted it. "Are you the one who clipped her wings?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"See," Eames leaned towards him. "I think you do. Cobb's cut himself off, which is probably for the best. Saito was never 'in' and needs to keep himself clean. Yusef wouldn't give a shit. Which just leaves us." Eames slouched back against the side of the bubble. "Now Ariadne seems to be blaming me because apparently someone told her I was a two-faced bastard..." he raised an eyebrow in Arthur's direction, soliciting for a reaction that Arthur was not about to give him, "but I'm pretty sure I didn't do anything, whereas you, you manage resources. And Cobb's neophyte is a resource worth a bit of managing."

Arthur said nothing.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Eames challenged.

"A few people might have asked for my opinion about taking her on and I might have said that in my belief she is a great architect, she's smart, quick, would be an asset to any team who was willing to take her under their wing because she's brilliant." Arthur hesitated, feeling the interrogatory prickle of Eames's scrutiny. "But that she might not fully grasp all of the dangers of the profession yet."

Eames chuffed out a laughing breath. "That is surprisingly vicious, even for you."

"You disagree with my assessment?" Arthur said, stung.

"Not for a minute," Eames assured him. "That's the problem when you succeed in doing what common wisdom insists can't be done on your first time out - you don't appreciate just how bloody difficult it was." They both subsided, vindicated. "Good call matching her up with Kaj and his crew," Eames offered into the brittle silence that settled over them, "I'm assuming that was you pulling strings behind the scenes, a few months getting acquainted with the realities of failure'll give her a better understanding of the risks of the trade." They looked at each other, seeing the long litany of lost comrades and enemies in the deep shadows around the other's eyes. Everyone in the business knew, and respected the neutrality of Kaj and his clinic. A five-year veteran of the industry who didn't know someone in the clinic was probably the one in the clinic themselves. Arthur numbered his own wounded as three acquaintances, one friend and one lover. He didn't ask what Eames's tally was but knew he must have one as the other man said solemnly, "And they stand the best chance of pulling her out if she dives straight back in the deep end."

It was a little strange for Arthur to hear his own thoughts expressed in Eames's throaty English accent.

"Have you ever wondered if the Inception only worked because we took Fischer all the way down to limbo?" Arthur found himself asking. There'd been a unspoken accord not to speak of the Fisher Job in any but the most vague allusions but here, in an impossible bubble floating over the impossible Thames of Eames's imagination, it, of all things, seemed permissible. Eames cocked his head and regarded him thoughtfully. "We didn't feed him the information down there," Arthur argued out Eames's side of the conversation for him, having turned it over in his head so many times that the point and counter-point had become rote, "but he took his suspicions down there with him, stewed in them, before Cobb and Ariadne pulled him out."

Eames shifted, a small movement of physical rather than mental discomfort but it was enough to make Arthur snap his mouth closed, embarrassed.

"It did occur to me," Eames said slowly and with the deliberate precision of a spotter painting targets, "when I was having a little chat with Ariadne about what happened with Mal. The only two known cases of successful inceptions and all that. I stress 'known' - it isn't exactly the type of thing you want to get around, is it?" He paused significantly. "You notice I'm not asking you how much you knew."

How much he'd missed. How much he had trusted Dom when he said 'not to worry', and 'I've got it under control'.

"Thank you." The words were gall in mouth, bitter and sharp. "I didn't as it happens - not until afterwards." It wasn't that Cobb hadn't told him, you didn't share secrets or vulnerabilities easily in their business even to someone you knew well, but that he had missed it despite having the clues in front of him. Eames accused him of lacking imagination and in Cobb's case that had been lamentably true, too caught up in the accepted protocols and customs to think beyond them. "You didn't say anything?" Arthur asked. "About your suspicions."

Eames shrugged. "Why would I? More profitable to keep schtum." He looked out over the towers and spires, not so impressive by American standards but striking in their own right. "And, right or wrong, I'd rather every Tom, Dick and Harry didn't start dropping people into Limbo on the off-chance." He looked back at Arthur and said with hollow levity, "Rather ups the ante, don't you think?" The frivolity sloughed away, bloodless but not without pain. "I take it you warned Ariadne to keep it to herself when you had your little chat with her."

"I'm actually surprised she told you." Arthur had meant every word of his warning at the time and didn't regret it all these months later.

"I can be a very good listener," Eames confided. "And I might not have been wearing my own face at the time."

"You extracted from her?" Arthur didn't know why he was surprised. It was Eames. And this was why Arthur had warned Ariadne that Eames was not to be trusted.

"If you want to call it that." Eames dismissed the offence as nothing. The man whose projections gave out perilous gifts to uninvited dreamers.

"What would you call it?"

"The poor girl needed a little closure with everything that happened." Eames smirked. "I just gave her the goodbye that Cobb didn't get around to."

"You seduced her?" Arthur demanded, incensed. He respected Ariadne's right to make her own mistakes but for Eames to deceive her like that, to use her understandable respect for Cobb as her teacher and twist it...

"Christ no!" Eames sounded so shocked at the idea that Arthur was forced to believe him. "I'm insulted," he complained, sulky and disgruntled. "Hell, I'm even insulted on Cobb's behalf."

"Come off it, Eames," Arthur said, horribly embarrassed and unwilling to be held entirely culpable for his error. "I've seen your work - it's hardly outside the bounds of possibility."

"Piss off," Eames flared. The bubble rocked as the air current they were held by wavered, the large eye, watching them still, shaded to the malevolent and unnatural red and gold of a explosion. Eames didn't appear to notice, entire attention focussed on Arthur. "You really think I'm that much of a bastard."

Around Eames's London giant birds began to thrust themselves skywards while the river bank slowly filled with the indistinct shapes of projections. Arthur began inching his hand around to his back where the shoulder holster he hadn't been wearing until a moment before nestled snugly.

"I don't have sex with someone who doesn't know that I'm me," Eames spat. He took a deliberate breath and in something a lot closer to his normal sarcastic drawl he added. "That third principle you wanted."

Arthur stopped moving, caught off-guard and not entirely sure what Eames was talking about. "What?"

"I've done some shitty things in my life," Eames elaborated, "but I will tell you this: I have never voluntarily had sex with anyone, dream or reality, with someone who didn't know that it was me, however I looked, and gave their okay. Enthusiastically."

"But I've seen you..." Arthur began and shut himself up. What he'd seen was not something he particularly wanted to recall, let alone discuss. Eames didn't appear to notice his reticence.

"Didn't see past the closed doors though, did you?" Eames said with a smug self-satisfaction that made Arthur want to shoot him. "I never thought you were the type to assume."

"So what - you got them in the bedroom and then said you just didn't feel like it?"

The projections were dispersing which Arthur cared about more at that particular moment. The dark chill of giant wings passed over them, an irregular reminder that his relative safety was only relative.

"Or pled a migraine," Eames expounded, ticking the excuses off on his fingers, "that time of the month, just wanting to cuddle, an unfortunate rash..."

"And that worked?" Arthur said with flat disbelief.

"Nearly always," Eames said, not quite meeting his eyes. "Consent is a bit of a funny thing in dreams. They can't, I won't... all gets a little symbolic. Just easier all around to not, if you can avoid it."

"So you just ignore the plan and put your entire team at risk?" Arthur wanted to get that clear. Eames had always been the first to go and flirt up a distraction, often choosing that when other possibilities had been available to then. Arthur had always assumed, and evidence had seemed to bear him out, that Eames just enjoyed messing with people.

"Now, now," Eames objected, "you can't disapprove of me for shagging the mark and then get pissed at me because I don't."

"I can if you blow your cover, and the job, just because you don't want to be upfront about your limitations." Arthur bit out.

"When have I ever cost a job because of it?" Eames protested. "You didn't even bloody notice so it was hardly affecting my performance."

"That's not the point."

"No," Eames agreed, "it isn't. Do you know how difficult it is to forge someone in an intimate situation? At a minimum I'd need video and audio surveillance of whoever I was forging having sex with the mark and, failing that, with multiple partners. I'd need to know if they had patterns of sexual behaviour, any favourite techniques... some stuff you can smooth over in the heat of passion - trying something new and all that - or hope the mark is an idiot. But how much tongue in a kiss or during a blow job, cheeky finger expected or deal-breaker, ticklish spots, those little places that make your knees week and your eyes cross; you just can't get that level of detail without getting it on with the target yourself, hardly keeping a low profile and not always feasible even were all concerned willing. I know my job, Arthur, and even if wasn't for the ethical concerns - and those are hardly bloody inconsiderable - it would still be more risky to actually play it through."

"I'd accept that if you were talking about forging someone the mark knows, but we both know that isn't always the case. None of those risks apply if you are talking about a stranger. You're hardly the only forger I've worked with - I've heard all this before. None of the others mentioned problems with previously unconsummated scenarios."

Eames's expression made very clear what he thought of those other forgers. "And how many times have they blown the job?"

Too many. Which had given Arthur all the excuse he needed to argue against any plan that relied on sex with the mark to succeed. It was a newbie tactic that came out of too many Hollywood movies.

"So you what?" Arthur said, dry as dust and the words just as gritty in his mouth. "Play the seduction card and then just drop the mark flat? And that little detail is something that you don't feel is necessary to share because it doesn't pose any added risk?"

"You'd think," Eames gave a cheesy grin that he probably thought was charming, "but, not if you pick the right excuse. The female clients are actually worse than the men - less used to getting shot down and more likely to be upset by it. I'm constantly amazed by the male psyche's simultaneous ability to believe that even in their own dreams they can't get laid and to blame it on some fault in the person turning them down."

"I'm impressed." That was one word at least; Arthur could think of a few others. "I think you managed to insult everyone with that gross generalisation."

"And hideously ethnocentric," Eames agreed unrepentantly.

"It's a good line," Arthur conceded with a sigh because it would have been nice if it was true. "But next time... don't try it on someone who knows you're lying."

A flash of something passed over Eames's face so quickly that Arthur could only guess what it had been from the barely repressed venom in Eames voice. "I think your vaunted omniscience must be on the fritz again, Arthur. Or did Cobb manage to break it permanently?"

"It doesn't take omniscience to call you on your bullshit, Eames." Arthur snapped, stung. "I've just got to see your lips moving."

Eames crossed his hands behind his head, switching to his most obnoxious. "You just don't want to admit you lost the bet. I gave you my three principles so I think I'm owed an apology."

The man was just outrageous. If he thought he was getting anything from Arthur except...

Eames laughed. "You do have such a wonderfully constipated expression right now. I'd always hoped that it was unbridled lust bared held in check - so much more interesting than your normal homicidal desires. You have those about everybody. It's something like this..."

Then there were two Arthurs sitting opposite each other and glowering with what Arthur suspected were almost identical expressions. If Arthur hadn't been so irritated he'd have been quite impressed that Eames could manage a forge that good without a mirror. But right at that moment Arthur didn't fucking care. Eames could lie all he fucking wanted to but Arthur didn't have to listen to it. They were done here anyway. The gun was solid in his hand and Eames-in-Arthur's-face didn't look surprised.

Apparently bubbles didn't reflect bullets. Either that or it wasn't a through-and-through. Arthur had aimed for the heart - he wasn't sharing close quarters with a headshot - so it could have been either.

"Some of us, Mr Eames," Arthur muttered, "are capable of multitasking". Then he frowned thoughtfully down at the body which had failed to revert to Eames's regular form. That was... interesting. And a little disturbing since it was his body that was leaking bodily fluids at his feet. As he shot himself out of the dream before it, and the bubble, collapsed around him he had the worrying thought that he'd reacted exactly how Eames intended.


	13. Chapter 13

> _And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools..._

~~~~

A woman walked proudly onto the stage. Blond hair bobbed and chic, with a few artful curls fringing her forehead to make every person in the audience wonder what she would look like mussed. Eames had chosen to take the spirit of the character rather than the reality and to Arthur's great relief she wasn't a disquieting fourteen playing dress-up but a slender, although irrefutably mature, young woman in her early twenties. With Eames's sense of humour the former had been a definite possibility.

"My name is Tallulah," she sang, voice as clear and pure as her intent was not. "My first rule of thumb: I don't say where I'm going or where I'm coming from."

The heavy silver satin of her dress swayed with her as she slinked forwards, the darker, gauzy sleeves curling like film-noir cigarette smoke around her arms to meet the glittering stars that garlanded her shoulders and neckline. She was the type of femme fatale that hard-bitten private eyes knew better than to ruin themselves for, but did it anyway.

"I try to leave a little reputation behind me," she informed them with cheeky solemnity. Pulling the pocket square slowly from Mark's jacket she favoured him with a wink before draping it over his face and moving on, her voice dropping to a throaty purr. "So if you really need to, you'll know how to find me..." Her fingers stroked along Arthur's cheek, warm and teasing. Arthur raised an eyebrow at her and refused to play along. Encouraging Eames in his little games was a recipe for humiliation and they were both still smarting from their recent argument. Eames, Arthur hoped it was Eames because he had no interest in irritating any projections quite yet, pouted at him. Arthur ignored it.

On the stage a small troupe of female projections provided the counterpoint, plastic smiles glued onto their faces. Daring silver hotpants revealing long, silk-stocking clad legs, and hostess hats perched flirtily over kohl-darkened eyes.

"My name is Tallulah, I live till I die," she swooned dramatically onto Nicholas's knee, "I'll take what you give me," only to stand with an overly conspicuous look down into his lap and a wink, "And I won't ask why," then she was off to the next table, "I've a lot of friends, In some exotic places..."

Arthur started to apologise for Eames's behaviour only to find that both Mark and Nicholas were grinning with good humour and apparent enjoyment of the entertainment. Public school British and Eames's ex, Arthur reminded himself and stopped worrying.

"I'm almost surprised that people thought to misuse lucid dreaming for stealing secrets and didn't just use it to take over the sex industry," Mark commented as 'Tallulah' flattened herself against the wall, one hand above her head in a subtle stretch, and promised the room that no one needed to be lonely.

"It was tried," Nicholas said. "But it doesn't scale well enough to compete with porn and the skill-set is rather more demanding than basic prostitution. That just leaves the high end and niche markets and they aren't lucrative enough to be anything more than a novelty."

Mark looked at him, distracted from the performance. "You sound like you've investigated," he said, a little tease in his voice.

"It's my job to know these things," Nicholas brushed the insinuation off. "Eames could probably tell you more," he nodded towards the slinking songstress. "Forgers are obviously in high demand." Arthur had heard, and dismissed, that rumour as well. Did Nicholas know something that he didn't? Nicholas must have read the question in his face because he said, "They're a pretty small community - I imagine word travels."

A waiter brought them a round of gin cocktails, courtesy of the house, and they watched the number play out. 'Tallulah' retired from the stage to rapturous applause and Eames slipped out from the wings as the chorus fluttered about the stage in an organised chaos that resolved into their next dance. The jazz band played, hip and jumping, and the audience chatted and drank.

"We were just talking about you?" Arthur told Eames as he sat down.

"Nothing good, I hope." Eames still had some of Tallulah's eyeliner on, the adornment a deliberately provocative touch with the classic mobster suit and slicked-back hair.

Nicholas pushed the spare drink across to him. "Dream brothels."

"That rumour was completely unfounded," Eames declared. "And anyway - it was for research."

"You've actually been to one?" Mark asked.

"A few." Eames tried the cocktail and raised a hand to signal the nearest waiter. "I know a forger or two who decided to go into that line. Not a great rate of return but safe enough and more time to spend with the family."

"Never tempted, yourself?" Nicholas saved the rest of them from the obvious question.

A smartly turned out hostess approached and Eames spoke to her quietly. Whatever he said made her eyes go wide, and she bobbed a quick curtsy before she hurried away.

"Too boring," Eames said as he turned back to the table. "And you're either building a scenario for the client to have sex with their own projections which is just very elaborate masturbation, and doesn't feel any better for it, or you're courting premature ejaculation alongside them because an hour of hot and heavy dream sex is still only five minutes when you're wiping yourself up afterwards."

"Is that common?" Mark wondered. "People having sex with their projections?"

In his peripheral vision Arthur could see that neither Nicholas or Eames appeared interested in meeting the eyes of anyone else at the table either.

"Hard to say," Eames said with a thoughtful pause. "It's not _uncommon_ and if you work in lucid dreaming for any length of time you're probably a curious type anyway... but it isn't something people generally make a habit of." He nodded to the projection who arrived with an ice bucket and showed the chilling bottle to Eames for his approval. "The whole point of a wank is that you don't have to take yourself out to dinner first, but each to their own."

Arthur was very glad he hadn't sipped his drink in that moment, Mark hadn't been quite so lucky and wheezed slightly around the burn of the alcohol as it tried to take a wrong turn.

"And, of course," Eames elaborated happily, "lucid dreaming offers the chance to try things that are dangerous, illegal or biologically impossible - indulge a few curiosities about things that might not even be of interest in the real world."

Another projection arrived and distributed coupe glasses to everyone. The first, studiously ignoring the conversation going on around him, broke the seal on the champagne and worked the cork out carefully. The pop as it released drew a few awed murmurs from the tables around them.

"Imported from France," Eames confided as the first glass was poured. He tested it and waved at the projection to fill the rest of the glasses.

Arthur tried his and toasted his approval.

When they were all served and the projections had withdrawn, Eames reached under the table and drew out a case that had definitely never held a violin.

"If we're all ready to move from sex to violence?"

He got a round of nods.

"This," Eames said proudly, throwing open the top and drawing out the contents, "is the very latest in splurge-gun technology. One round a second and good for a range of about five meters. Carries twenty rounds in the drum and can be set to either semi or fully automatic."

He stood, raising the gun up to his shoulder and took careful aim at one of the tall art-deco planters that stood nearby. The round hit with a wet splat, not even trembling the palms sticking out of the pot. The nearby projections turned to stare at them, grumbling unhappily to each other. They didn't react further which was a bad sign as far as militarisation went.

Eames sat back down, grinning broadly. "If you all look by your chairs you will find that I've procured one for each of you." He reached for his drink as they all looked under the table to see he was correct. "In the next few minutes," Eames went on, "this speakeasy will be raided - the aim of this game is to chase down the notorious 'Handsome' Eames and his associates, 'Blue-Eyes' Brocklehurst and 'The Pointman'. We, meanwhile, will be trying to get to the safe on the top floor of the connected terrace building which, I have it on good authority, contains certain pictures which would be very persuasive in getting our politician here," Eames nodded to Mark, "to get the police to look the other way over the small matter of our non-existent liqueur license."

"At least, it does now," Nicholas muttered to Mark, sotto voice, as Arthur said "Handsome Eames?" with complete disbelief.

"Are you saying I should have stuck with the 'fat'?" Eames challenged.

Arthur stared at him because Eames was honest-to-God pouting, and not in the joking way he did occasionally. It had been disturbing enough when 'Tallulah' had done it. He was, thankfully, saved from answering by Nicholas unpacking his own gun and examining it.

"Twenty rounds isn't very many," Nicholas noted.

"Wanted to make sure the projection had to stop and re-load - give us a fighting chance." Nicholas nodded at Eames's explanation. "There's more ammo, and guns on the upper levels. Just look for the lockers."

The explanation was for Mark - the rest of them had seen the plan of the level and were well aware of the details. They were counting on Mark's projections picking up on what he knew and arming themselves.

"And down here?" Arthur asked. The weapon was similar to a tommy gun in design but with a large, cartoonish, drum for the splurge. He cracked it, unloading it and checking the action before loading it again. It took a little heft but the movement was smooth enough. With a little practice he should be able to reload at a reasonable speed. It was lighter than a machine gun that size had any right to be but Eames had clearly thrown physics out of the window for this one. Eames believed it worked and Mark believed it worked and that was enough.

"Cream pies under the tables for the patrons," Eames listed as he worked. "A few toys in each of the plant pots, guns behind the bar and in the piano for the staff."

"We can but hope," Arthur said dryly. He put the gun on the table in front of him, downed his champagne in toast and looked at Eames.

Eames waited until everyone including Mark was satisfied they were comfortable with their splurge guns before he said, "Arthur - if you wouldn't mind stepping outside and inviting the police to join us..."

Arthur picked his gun back up and leant the barrel against his shoulder, the stock nestled in the crook of his arm. Time to go.

"Anybody who is anybody will soon walk through that door at Handsome Eames's, Sweet Dreams, Speakeasy" the chorus trilled as he walked up the steps to the front door. They didn't know how right they were.

The main entrance to the speakeasy was located in a bookshop and Arthur nodded politely to the proprietor as he went past. The projection looked at him fearfully - which could have had something to do with the large gun he had slung over his shoulder.

"Keep the door open," he ordered. "I won't be long."

The shopkeeper ducked down behind his counter which Arthur took as a 'yes, sir'.

The street outside was a Hollywood version of 1920s Chicago and therefore completely inaccurate. Arthur could see at least three blatant anachronisms and one Britishism, all of which he put down to Eames's lack of proper research. Nobody else seemed to care; Mark's projections milling around the streets with purposeless purpose as they got on with their non-existent lives.

Arthur took a deep breath and brought the gun into position. It was tempting to leave it at waist height and just spray the surrounding neighbourhood but until he was sure of the recoil that was just asking for the embarrassment of a dropped gun. He braced himself.

SPLAT-AT-AT-AT! SPLAT!

The lack of broken glass and general destruction was a little disappointing from an aesthetic perspective but the line of wet splats across the opposite window had the desired effect. Projections shrieked and ran, ducking away from the crazy man in the street in disorganised panic. A good start but not exactly what he had been hoping to achieve. He let off more rounds, taking the opportunity to become better acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of splurge ordnance.

A projection in the ill-fitting jacket and the flat, peaked cap of a policeman blew a whistle shrilly to summon help. Perfect! Arthur took careful aim. SPLAT: one splurge coated hat on the ground and one copper scrambling for cover. That, he decided should do it. He retreated to the bookshop doorway, waiting until he was sure that a crowd of uniformed projections were gathering.

'Shit,' he muttered, catching sight of their leader. Time to go. The shop keeper was still cowering as Arthur got to the speakeasy's hidden door.

"Hey," he said.

The projection turned to him...

SPLAT!

... and fell over, a look of surprise on his face at the large, white splatter that had suddenly appeared in the centre of his chest. Arthur shouldered the gun again. He felt a little bad, even if it was only a projection, but they couldn't risk the man letting the other projections in. And he was only a projection.

Pushing the door closed behind him, Arthur slammed and locked the view panel.

"Door's closed for a bit," he told the bouncer who was staring at him dumbly. "Go help Larry." The bouncer looked at him in confusion, which was fair enough as he had no idea who Larry was either. "Go!" He put more emphasis into the command.

The bouncer glared at him unhappily but went away which was all Arthur cared about. He jammed the door mechanism and hurried back down the stairs to the others. The projections would break it down quickly enough but it would give them a little time.

"Done," he reported when he got back to their table.

Nicholas and Eames put their drinks down and stood, guns held close and ready, while Mark watched them, unsure what was happening.

"By the way," Arthur said quietly to Eames, "it looked like Eliot Ness has gone blond this year," and answered the 'two Nicholases, one dream' question.

"Hardly a surprise." A dull crash from the entrance level interrupted him. "Okay - look lively, people, we've got incoming. Mark - you might want to beat the rush and duck under the table."

Eames took out the first projection as he came through the door and the screaming started.

"This way," he told them. Arthur and Nicholas immediately fell in behind him, offering cover fire as Eames's opened the way to the stage and the relatively quiet backstage area beyond. None of the speakeasy patrons took the opportunity to arm themselves which made them relatively easy to fend off although Arthur was forced to take the high road across two tables to get the angle he needed on the door and keep them from being overwhelmed by the incoming rush. The policemen were their biggest threat, splurge flying in their direction as a few of the more aggressive were able to bring their police-issue guns to bear. Despite their initiative, they were still clumsy and between them, Eames, Nicholas and he were able to pick the shooters off long enough for them to make it to the wings. As he ducked behind the curtain, Arthur caught a glimpse of the other Nicholas hustling Mark away from the chaos.

Eames led them through the shabby passages behind the stage into the dressing room area, and through a door with the name Tallulah pinned defiantly to the wood on a homemade, paper star.

"When you said you had a thing for Tallulah," Arthur muttered, "this isn't what I thought you meant."

"Stairs at the back," Eames reminded him needlessly as he ushered them in, reaching for a chair to wedge under the doorknob.

Arthur thumped the panel that revealed the passageway; he and Nicholas scrambled in, checking for any signs of projections as they waited for Eames to join them. The stairs were narrow, rough wood and cobwebs and never intended to be seen by any of the paying guests. Arthur went first, taking them two at a time, Eames, the last one in, taking rear guard.

"Remember Amy?" Arthur heard Nicholas ask as they climbed.

"Oh God," Eames choked back laughter. "Yes. That was a good night."

Arthur looked down at them from the position he'd taken at the exit. "Eames?"

"Yes, Arthur?" Eames said meekly. That was a bad sign.

"Am I going to regret asking: Amy?"

"There was a bunch of us down in Plymouth on leave..." Eames began.

Arthur put up a hand to stop him, taking advantage of the silence to listen for the sound of projections on the other side of the wood panel that was doubling as a door. He couldn't hear anything and let the other two know with a quick shake of his head.

"Is this another one of your drinking stories?" he demanded although, really, he should have known.

Eames pointed to the door and signalled Arthur should go left, Nicholas right and he would follow them.

"If you don't want to hear..?" he said as they burst out of the passageway.

If the empty room was surprised by their sudden arrival then it didn't show it. They spread out, quickly covering the space. Eames ended up by the door and peered out. Holding up two fingers he pointed right. Arthur pointed to himself and held up one finger. Eames nodded. Moments later the three of them were standing over the splurge covered bodies of the two projections.

"Stairs," Eames said shortly.

"So?" Arthur asked as they walked briskly along. "Who was Amy?"

Nicholas looked at Eames.

"I was," Eames checked around a corner as he spoke, holding up his hand. The faint sound of many feet was rapidly becoming less faint. "We were having a good night on the town when some unpleasant oiks decided to have a go." He flicked his gun to fully automatic. "It started with a bit of unfriendly name calling, following us, but then one of the more mentally challenged in the group decided to take a swing."

Arthur raised any eyebrow. "What happened?"

Eames grinned, the smile of a shark scenting blood. "Pretty much what you'd think."

He stepped around the corner, leaving Nicholas and Arthur to flank him, spurge guns whirling up to speed as they splattered the oncoming projections in a wave of white. Arthur's gun clicked empty and he fell back, looking for one of the ammo lockers that Eames had mentioned.

"I was shocked," Eames said as the last projection fell with a distinct splat. "You'd think they'd be used to a bit of drag with all those navy-boys around, twin sets and such."

"'Full sets', Eames," Nicholas corrected. Eames waved the distinction away.

"I need ammo," Arthur warned.

"There should be some at the corner by the next landing." Eames looked down at drum of his gun. "I'm nearly out as well."

Nicholas went over to the splurged bodies and picked up one of the guns, half covered by a body. "A little light corpse-robbing, gentlemen?" He held the gun out to Arthur.

Arthur checked it over. It was identical to the one he was already carrying except for the mostly full load of splurge caps and a slight smear of gooey substance on the stock. "You couldn't have included carry straps," he complained to Eames.

There was only one other gun among the bodies and Eames stripped the magazine from it before discarding the rest.

"Let's find that locker," he said. "We should have a good line of sight on the lower level from there if we want to pick a few of the bastards off"

Eames guided them confidently along the twisting passages. He was the dreamer; he had the lead. The locker was where he had said and they raided it quickly, dividing the spoils between them. There was webbing curled in the bottom of the box and Arthur attached straps to both of his guns, slinging one over his back for ease of transportation.

"The one thing I am not sure I'm getting here," Arthur said as he clipped in a full drum of splurge in place of the empty one, "is why you were going around Plymouth in drag."

Eames shrugged. "Lost a bet." The pockets of his previously slick suit were bulging with magazines but sartorial elegance always came second to practicality. "You don't welsh on a bet."

Arthur stopped stuffing his own pockets to gape at the sheer absurdity of that statement. "Eames," he objected, "do you want me to start listing the people you've double-crossed?"

"That's work," Eames said as if it should have been obvious. "A bet is a bet."

Nicholas nodded agreement. They were both insane and the sooner this was over and Arthur could go far away and be among sensible people, even if he had to find some first, the better. He slapped the safety off.

"I suppose I should just be thankful you didn't decide to streak the base."

Nicholas and Eames looked at each other.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Arthur sighed, "you'd already streaked the base, hadn't you?"

Eames held a hand up in protestation. "That was never proven."

"Although God knows how, given you ran slap bang into the Colonel," Nicholas added.

"Wasn't looking at my face, was he?" Eames said gleefully, "Dirty old bastard."

Arthur was actually glad that the arrival of a well armed group of projections effectively prevented any further discussion on the subject. They fell back, forced to retreat down a nearby corridor and all conversation was limited to the call and response of necessity and confirmation. He rarely worked with other team members with the level of military training that Eames and Nicholas had and he appreciated the way that the three of them fell into an easy rhythm of run-and-cover.

"Shit," Nicholas said, audible over the coughing splutter of Arthur's and Eames's sniping. "We've got more coming up behind."

Arthur risked a glance behind him and saw that Nicholas was right; a dark wave of projections had rounded the furthest corner and were running towards them. They halted as Nicholas raked the corridor with splurge but it wouldn't hold them for long.

"The room next to you," he yelled to Nicholas, very aware of Eames dealing with the ever nearing projections on their side, "it's got a connecting door - we can cut through to the other corridor."

"Go!" Nicholas's and Eames's voices overlapped into one shout. Arthur went, tearing the door open and taking up position just inside the doorframe so he could cover Eames's sprint then Nicholas's whirl to join them. Arthur slammed the door shut, only breathing as Eames turned the key to click the lock.

"That won't hold them for long," Eames warned. "And I could do with another top up - I didn't get a chance to loot the bodies of the last lot."

"That's because the last lot was still trying to donate directly," Nicholas pointed out.

The connecting room was empty and they hurried through, locking that door behind them as well.

"Okay," Eames said as huddled by the exit. "Left out of here and then first right should get us to supplies. Then the corridor splits - right to the servants' stairs, left for the main ones."

"Single file versus open ground," Nicholas summarised. "If there's a lot of them we'll get overwhelmed in the open faster than in closed quarters."

"And if there aren't," Arthur pointed out, "then it's quicker the other way and we are less likely to get trapped. We don't have to decide until we get to the junction - we'll make the call then."

A crash from the room behind them spurred them on. They made it to the supply drop, barely having time to grab a handful of mags each before the oncoming projections forced them to keep moving.

"We're not going to make it either way with that lot behind us," Arthur opined as they approached the two possible turnings.

"I'll divert them," Nicholas offered. "You get to the main stairs, I'll try and go the back way. Meet you at the ammo drop in the maid's room"

Eames clapped his chest, a silent good luck, and they split, Nicholas firing wildly down the corridor as Eames and Arthur slipped down the left passage and sprinted for the next corner and the staircase beyond. Behind them the rattle and splat of splurge-fire was replaced by the noise of diminishing pursuit. A projection stepped out of one of the rooms and Arthur clubbed it down before it could shout warning. They didn't slow down as they hit the landing, relying on speed and surprise to get them through any projections that were there. A few shots splashed past them, wild and unaimed, and the walls around the stairwell gained the look of a Jackson Pollock lesser work as they returned fire with more enthusiasm than accuracy.

Making the steps they ran on, Eames picking off a few projections from the upper level as they went while Arthur discouraged those remaining behind them from taking more than pot shots by blindly loosing rounds from both his guns into the mess. He paused at the turn of the stairs, trusting Eames to keep him covered and tucked the twin weapons into waist level and unleashed a deluge of splurge. The recoil was a bitch and he was going to feel it in his arms and where he'd braced this elbows against his hips until he woke up. Despite the complete victory of style over substance, he managed to take down a couple of projections due to the sheer amount of white stuff flying around. More critically the incoming reinforcements were obliged to retreat to cover. Guns clicking empty, Arthur leapt up the stairs before they could get themselves back together.

"They're getting better," Eames noted as he reached the top. Eames was breathing more heavily than before but Arthur wasn't in a much better state so he forbore from commenting. "This way."

They ducked around a corner and into a cupboard, Eames listening for any hint of their hunters while Arthur took the opportunity to reload. Necessities completed he joined Eames at the door. The rumble of running feet could be clearly heard on the thin carpet, much older and more thread-worn than that which graced the lower floors. It faded away as the searchers spread out looking for them.

"I think I saw Mark," Arthur said quietly.

Eames made a interested noise. "How's he doing?" he whispered back.

"Hard to tell," Arthur admitted. "The rogue plastered him to the wall when I started shooting."

Eames snickered, more of a low vibration that Arthur could feel through the bulk of his body than a noise.

"Must have thought your aim was that bad."

Arthur allowed himself a wide smile at the whole exhilarating silliness of it all. "What aim?" he asked and Eames flashed a grin right back at him.

They waited in silence until all sounds from outside the door ceased.

"Well," Eames said, "either they've gone for now or they are waiting outside to shoot us as we come out."

Arthur shouldered the first of his guns. "Let's find out."

The corridor outside the cupboard was deserted although Arthur's peek around the nearby corner revealed a squad of projections guarding the top of the stairs.

Arthur flicked two fingers towards the other end of the corridor and they snuck away. The maid's room was on the other side of the house but good fortune and skill were with them, a trail of splurged bodies the only mark of their passing.

"We wait here five minutes then go on," Eames decided, covering the door while Arthur went back to root through the supplies for his share.

"Should I leave some mags?" Arthur looked over at Eames. "Just in case we miss him?"

They both knew that if Nicholas didn't come in that time then he probably wasn't going to, but there was a chance that he could last out a while on the narrow stairs and be delayed longer than they could afford the time to wait.

Eames gave a sharp nod. "It was odd," Eames said, "when we first arrived I thought I saw Brock talking to the rogue projection."

Arthur stopped, magazine forgotten in his hand. "What did he say?"

"Nothing," Eames gave a little shrug. "He was just leaning against a bloody mirror."

Arthur finished collecting his ammunition and indicated that Eames should take his turn.

"So why are you telling me this?"

"I think I know why you thought I was lying the other evening." Eames unpacked supplies, not looking at Arthur.

"Oh?"

"You were thinking of the Kallaher job, weren't you?"

"Among others," Arthur said, a little cross that Eames felt the need to revisit the subject when they had rediscovered some of the ease that had been missing between them. "It's hardly the only time I have caught you in flagrante with a mark."

"Believe me or not, but you have never caught me in flagrante with a mark," Eames cracked his gun, the sound a sharp and violent punctuation to his statement, "not on the Kallaher job and not any other time."

"I know what I saw, Eames."

"And you believe the evidence of your own eyes over me," Eames accused him, as if that wasn't the only reasonable position to take. He slammed the new magazines into his gun with more force than necessary.

Arthur was about to retort when three projections in police uniforms burst into the room. He split left as Eames split right and he could feel the moist patter of splash-back against his face as three rounds burst between them. He got off two shots to Eames's one as Eames's gun jammed. Luck was against them as the centre man fell with two splurge rounds decorating his suit. The remaining projection didn't hesitate. Whether it was chance or the projection had realised Eames's gun was temporarily disabled Arthur wasn't sure, but he saw the muzzle swinging is his direction and brought his own gun round, knowing he probably wouldn't get any shots off in time. The projection lurched, a white stain sprouting on his left breast, his shot going wide. Arthur's didn't but by then it didn't matter - the projection was pitching forwards, landing with a dull thumb near his erstwhile compatriots.

"Nicholas," Arthur gasped.

The familiar blond head poked around the doorframe, sardonic smile firmly in place. Arthur didn't drop his guard until Nicholas limped inside, gun lowered in his right hand and the left raised, empty. He kicked the door shut behind him.

"Nice to see you too, dear," he said. That same contrary Britishness that wielded endearments like knives and insults as accolades was as irritating from his mouth as it was from Eames's. Arthur forced himself to lower his gun anyway.

Eames looked up from where he was clearing the blockage. "What the hell happened to you?" he demanded.

"Lucky shot." Nicholas dismissed the injury. "Bloody Mark clipped me." Arthur thought he actually sounded rather pleased about that. "Doesn't hurt, but the whole leg's completely numb."

"How are you feeling about stairs?" Eames said, a worried look on his face.

Nicholas shook his head. "At this point I'm only going to slow you down. Your best best is to prop me up somewhere and I'll keep them off your back for as long as I can. They're patrolling the landings now so it's going to be a bit touch and go as it is."

"At least thy're getting into the spirit of it," Eames rationalised. "We left you some ammo if you want it."

Nicholas nodded. "Don't mind if I do."

"West stairs are closest," Arthur suggested while Nicholas finished his resupply.

Eames nodded. "Let's go."

They wasted no time, taking down projections as they came across them, an increasingly frequent occurrence as they drew nearer the final stairway.

"Wasps around the jam pot," Eames muttered quietly as Arthur handed his spare weapon to Nicholas.

"And they don't half sting," Nicholas agreed. "We ready?"

Eames nodded. "Here goes nothing. First one to die starts the brew..."

They stepped out, guns chattering in a three-part harmony before settling down to a rolling duet as they traded off time to reload. The projections fell before them, splurge-covered and slimy. In a few months the memory of their passing would be funny but time had yet to make comedy from the tragedy in front of them.

Nicholas leaned heavily against the wall as they reached the cut-out of the stairwell.

"You going to be alright?" Eames asked.

Nicholas smiled, tight and sharp. "Not a chance. Get going. I should be able to inconvenience the little buggers for a few minutes."

"See you topside," Arthur offered, mounting the first few steps and waiting for Eames to join him.

Eames gripped Nicholas's arm in farewell, leaning in as he went past. "Don't forget the tea, darling."

"Get fucked, sweetheart," Nicholas said pleasantly.

He would, Arthur thought, never understand the English.

They started up the final flight of steps and all hell broke out behind them. The steps were almost closer to a ladder than a staircase, nearly vertical and not meant for everyday use. Quick ascension risked a broken neck but the rising commotion behind them drove them on with more speed than safety.

"You couldn't have gone with an easier design," Arthur complained under his breath. "No, of course not."

There were projections waiting for them at the top of the stairs and each step became a battle.

"I'm getting low on ammo," Arthur warned, a precious step gained but a precarious one.

"Here," Eames passed his gun forward. "Give me yours."

Trading off weapons, they fought their way up the last stretch of the stairs. Arthur threw himself out at the top, rolling over on the ground to shoot the remaining projections from below as Eames burst after him, strafing high. The last of the guarding projections went down and Arthur picked himself up and brushed futilely at the a dirt and smears of who-knew-what that had attached itself to his suit.

From the floor beneath them, the sounds of gunfire stopped.

"They got him?" Arthur asked.

Eames glanced back down the stairs and emptied the last of his magazine into the dark of the stairwell. It was a rather pointless gesture but Arthur understood the sentiment.

"Like an ostrich shat on his head," Eames confirmed. "Last gasp."

They ran, the projections clattering up the stairs behind them. Two projections came at them head on and Arthur took them with a couple of swiftly aimed bursts. He could hear Eames behind him, swearing to himself as he raced to reload his gun and then the SPLAT-AT-AT of Eames covering their backs.

"Left," Eames yelled to him. Arthur skidded around the corner into another three projections; taking the first down with the advantage of surprise, he was forced to take cover in the nearest doorway before the other two filled him full of cream.

"Wait," he called back. As he got the second projection, the door he was flattened against opened, pitching him backwards with a surprised shout into the room beyond. He staggered sideways, not wanting to give the remaining projection the chance of a clear shot before he worked out what the hell was going on. He just hoped that Eames realised what had happened and had stepped in.

The room had the same sloping ceiling of all those on the top floor while an indulgently thick carpet explained why he hadn't had any warning before the door opened. If Arthur remembered the plans correctly, which he did, act-of-Eames aside, then it was supposed to be an attic room. What it was, was a drawing room complete with a well-appointed chaise longue and matching arm chairs clustered around a fireplace in which a banked fire, warm but not over-powering, offered a picturesque focus.

Nicholas was seated in one of the armchairs, shirt sleeves pushed up to the holding bands and suit and trench coat draped over the back. Fedora and tommy gun sat on the small table in front of him.

Except Nicholas, or at least his body, was at the bottom of the stairs and Mark was standing in front of him, gun in his hand, colour high on his cheeks, and looking as shocked to see him as he was to see Mark.

"Mark..." he began. Mark pulled the trigger and splurge hit him directly over the heart.

'Well damn!' Arthur thought, and went down under a hail of cream-filled fire. Far away he could hear the noise of fighting and Eames calling his name. His last thought was relief that the door had shut behind him so Eames hadn't seen how badly he'd screwed up...


	14. Chapter 14

> _If you can make one heap of all your winnings  
>  And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss..._

~~~~

Eames didn't sulk (the word came wrapped in implications of recalcitrant five year olds and moody teenagers), so much as give Arthur the distinct impression that Eames had withdrawn from him. The silence between them had never been entirely comfortable, a little bit too knowing on both their parts even without the knife edge of suspicion that their respective histories mandated. Arthur didn't mind that; he didn't get into dreamshare for the people. But Eames's sudden... reassessing... of their interaction was a death of a thousands cuts when previously they had both restricted themselves to the flat of the blade. The change had bothered him, not in the normal way that Eames bothered and irritated everyone by turns, but in a way that made him want to identify the cause and confirm he hadn't misstepped. It hadn't taken him long to identify the point of dissonance. What to do about it, if anything, required more contemplation. Their working relationship, which was the important thing, hadn't noticeably degenerated even if it was a bit frostier than normal. It might even have been improved.

Arthur had little patience for beating around a problem but his resolution to confront Eames had to wait for the right moment; one in which they were not being surveilled. It came one Thursday as they made their way back to their temporary home. The session with Mark had gone well, putting Eames in something close to his normal effusive mood. It was amazing what you could miss when it was gone but Arthur figured he had more reason than most to get perturbed when people around him started acting a little oddly. H'd started to worry he'd rub the corners off his die the amount of times he'd felt the need to touch it because Eames had missed the opportunity to make a smart remark to him.

Luck had given them an otherwise empty carriage and their minder had tucked herself away in the far corner, pretending to read a Metro and giving them some privacy.

"So," Arthur broke the silence. Eames swivelled his head with exaggerated care and looked at him. "Is it that you don't think I cared that you seduced unaware people in their dreams, or that I thought you did it at all?"

Eames didn't pretend to misunderstand. "It can't be both?" he asked. His eyes flicked to where their spook-of-the-day sat but they were both speaking softly enough that even in the quiet of the carriage they wouldn't be heard over the ambient noise.

Arthur nodded acknowledgement of Eames's point. "Most people wouldn't see it as any worse than what we do anyway."

Eames made it very easy for people not to take him seriously. Everyone in dreamsharing knew not to judge a book by its cover, doubly so when it came to forgers, but Eames made a concerted effort to provide an additional summary, review quotes, cliff notes and a sample of the first chapter. That anything important was carefully placed in the footnotes of a different volume was only to be expected. It was a trap that Arthur had never knowingly let himself fall into. He'd no intention on starting at this stage in their acquaintance and it galled him that he might have done so.

"Most people are idiots." Eames said shortly.

Arthur didn't disagree with that as a general sentiment but it hardly answered the question.

"Who was it?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"Pardon?" Eames's brows were drawn in but the short bite of the two syllables was more insulted than confused.

"You aren't making anyone do anything that they don't want to do," Arthur elaborated, "they just don't know it is really you that they are doing it with - that's a very fine line you're drawing." Eames flicked the fingers of his right hand in and out in a little wave, moving an invisible coin over his knuckles. Or deliberately distracting himself from forming a fist. The movement drew Arthur's eye but he ignored it to concentrate on Eames's face and any clues that might be there. "Especially when anything that happened... isn't really happening," he finished.

"And because I am a thieving bastard you think I can't have strong feelings about consent if something didn't happen to someone close to me?" Eames filled in for him, the false lightness of the tone glittering with sharp sarcasm.

Arthur didn't embarrass easily. "I hope you aren't trying to tell me that you aren't a thieving bastard," he retorted.

Eames's teeth flashed, white against the pink of his lips. "And proud of it," Eames agreed. The edge to his words was blunted with satisfaction; he knew, or thought he knew, something that Arthur didn't. Arthur regarded him warily, not ready to trust the change of mood and twitchy about what he had apparently missed. Eames shook his head despairingly at Arthur's reaction. "There is no big mystery here," Eames said fondly. "If it helps, put it down to my ego; I don't like having sex with people who aren't interested in having sex with me. And, while the mark might not remember it afterwards - I do."

That... sounded sadly believable. Which didn't necessarily make it true, but partially true was a definite possibility. Arthur's first instinct was to point out the flaw in Eames's claim but it was strangely out of character for Eames to continue with a line of argument that he knew Arthur had already disproved. Some attempts at deviation or correction of his story to maintain the charade were to be expected - protestations of innocent were not.

"Let's say, for the sake of argument," Arthur allowed, "I believed you and what I saw during the Kallaher job wasn't what I saw."

Eames looked at him with an interested, curious scrutiny. "Let's say that," he echoed.

"So," Arthur said when Eames didn't elaborate on that point any further, "what did I see?"

"Ah," Eames tutted, "you aren't asking me to give away professional secrets now, are you, Arthur?"

"I'm asking you to give me a good reason to believe your claims when I personally witnessed something to contradict them," Arthur snapped. Because he was giving Eames the god-damn benefit of the doubt here, when there wasn't even any doubt to be had, so the least that Eames could do was cooperate and not pull any 'professional secrets' bullshit.

Eames had the good manners to fake apologetic. "It's a little hard to explain," he hedged.

Arthur shrugged. "Then show me."

They worked in lucid dreaming - pretty much everything that they did was 'a little hard to explain'. You didn't try to explain architectural paradoxes cold, you took a new dreamer down and demonstrated a few to them.

"Pardon?" Eames sounded like he couldn't actually believe Arthur had made the suggestion which was stupid because it was obviously the most logical way to proceed.

"I'm sure you can remember the layout. Take me down and show me the trick."

Eames actually looked about him at the empty train carriage. "Now?"

If the question was sarcastic he was certainly hiding it well. Although if he was expecting Arthur to whip a PASIV out from underneath his seat or out of his pocket he was going to be disappointed.

"When we get back," Arthur said. "Unless you need prep time?"

"I need a mark."

Arthur looked at him pointedly; knowing why Eames was prevaricating made it only slightly less irritating.

"You're aware of what that entails?" Eames's careful scrutiny was beginning to get a little insulting.

"Yes, Eames, I'm aware." A disturbing thought occurred to him - he'd done some unpleasant things in his life, not all of them in dreamshare, but there were some limits. "Although I would take it as a favour if I wasn't faced with the second Mrs Kallaher when we get down there. Unless she's an absolutely necessary," he stressed the word in a tone that left no doubt that anything up to and including torture was a preferable option, "part of the reconstruction."

Eames gave him a look of pure evil; a surprisingly good impression of the lady in question given the limitations of the situation. "And after all that work I had done..." His voice unclasped its pearls and settled into a more familiar insouciance. "You wound me - as if I would inflict anyone that unrefined on you."

Arthur forbore from commenting on just how much delight Eames had taken in inflicting his forge on anyone and everyone until the whole team had taken to avoiding him in the dreamscape whenever possible. They didn't talk for the rest of the journey.

Even when the front door was closed and locked behind them they separated to their respective tasks without discussion; Arthur retrieved the PASIV out from its secure location and busied himself setting it up while Eames went through the flat and checked for any signs of tampering or changes to the bugs. Just a typical night in.

"How long?" Arthur asked as Eames finally joined him. "The timer," he specified before Eames could make the obvious joke. Normally he'd roll his eyes and ignore the innuendo but in their current situation it felt a little too close to home. Eames had, he noticed, changed into a pair of loose jogging bottoms and a soft t-shirt.

Eames shrugged, grabbing his line and plumping down on the near end of the sofa that had somehow become his.

"We gave it ten minutes on the job," he said after some thought. "Should be more than enough."

Arthur keyed in the figures and wavered, eyeing Eames's attire.

"Oh, go change, Arthur," Eames grumbled. "I've seen you in slobby clothes before. We might as well both be comfortable for this."

Arthur bit back the urge to point out that his outfit was quite comfortable. There was the possibility, however slight, that things would happen in the dream which would cause his body to respond in ways that had nothing to do with Eames and everything to do with the body's response to the application of basic stimuli. And if that did occur then 'comfortable' was a much more philosophical concept.

"Can I trust you not to tamper with the machine?" he asked. He didn't know what Eames's supposed trick entailed but he wasn't about to rule out some form of physical interference.

Eames held up both hands in surrender. "It's safe from me." At Arthur's suspicious look he offered, "You can handcuff me to the sofa if it will make you feel happier."

"Like you couldn't get out of them," Arthur dismissed the idea. He did go and change though. He also checked the PASIV over when he got back. It didn't pay to take chances.

"Of course you realise, since you'll know it is me down there, all bets are off," Eames noted as he was coming to the conclusion that Eames hadn't touched the equipment.

Arthur made sure he was seated comfortably and his own cannula was correctly situated before he looked across and said, "What do you mean?"

As if he didn't know what Eames was getting at.

"I mean, Arthur," the words were bitten off in subtle challenge, "that you're asking me down into a dream to seduce you."

Arthur wouldn't have put it quite like that. Ever.

"Firstly," Arthur pointed out, "it's not like we've never kissed before." It was technically true, as far as it went. Admittedly their, occasional forays into semi-intimate contact had been misdirection, distraction and on a few regrettably unforgettable occasions, provocation but that did not negate their existence. These things happened, especially around Eames. "Secondly, I'm asking you to show me your supposed trick, not to seduce me."

It was a rather rote objection, especially in the light of his change of attire. But still - not asking Eames to seduce him. Not. Ever.

"True." The grin flashed, punctuation rather than emotion. "But the seduction is a rather necessary part of it. If it works then you get to see the trick. If it doesn't then we have sex." Eames paused, clearly giving Arthur the chance to reply if he wanted to. Arthur didn't. "I'm currently," Eames confided with rather malicious enjoyment, "trying to decide exactly which of those two options is supposed to be the disincentive."

Eames reached out and hit the button, dragging them both down into sleep before Arthur could respond with anything other than disbelief...

...Arthur's first thought on coming back to awareness was: 'Bastard!'

It was not an uncommon thought around Eames. He was somewhat mollified that Eames had dressed him in an exquisitely tailored tuxedo. For all their difference in personal styles Eames taste in dream apparel was impeccable, customised to both person and occasion. Arthur adjusted his jacket slightly, checking his bowtie in one of the mirrored panels that lined the walls; perfect.

Looking around the room with a critical eye Arthur couldn't find any fault with that either. The hotel was grand in the old European style, all gilt rococo and glittering glass. Arthur had hated it when the architect first designed it and he still hated it. It looked like the decorators had eaten a box of Christmas ornaments, tinsel and all, and then vomited. He had much the same feeling about Vienna.

If they were following the same pattern as the extraction then the ballroom was where he needed to be. It was, thankfully, one of the two places nearby where he could get a drink. The effects of alcohol imbibed during a dream were generally believed to be psychosomatic but he needed all the help he could get and if that was it then he would take it.

He got himself a champagne cocktail because it was that sort of bar. Perched on a barstool he watched the dancers swirl around the floor and waited for Eames.

_'As the river flows, surely to the sea, darling, so it goes...'_

He wondered, idly, if Eames was the vocalist and having a joke at his expense because: really?

The band played on.

Then he saw him.

Eames was wearing a brunette, hair up and pinned with diamonds, and with sparkling, dark eyes to match. He was also a she, which Arthur realised he should have expected given the script they were playing out - he'd just hoped that Eames, of all people, would take liberties with the details to better suit their particular circumstances. He supposed he should be grateful that Eames had kept his promise and wasn't using his forge from the extraction.

Arthur judged that Eames's current disguise was about his height, or would be if he was standing, and an inch or two shorter if she took off her heels. She had a dancer's lithe figure and her outfit was chosen to flatter rather than reveal her natural curves. Her dress, classic and classy, was black but she had enough tone to her skin not to look either washed out or vampiric. It flowed gracefully with her as she moved, small details of beadwork catching the light to sparkle like shooting stars in a midnight sky.

Unlike many of Eames's more obvious efforts, the phrase 'looking like a million dollars' did not apply to the amount spent on cosmetic enhancements. While Arthur appreciated that they worked, he appreciated even more that Eames didn't think that they would work on him. If he'd had any doubts that the young woman was Eames, which he hadn't, they would have been dashed when she came directly over to him. Her perfume was subtle, musky rather than flowery. It was a nice touch as she bent forwards and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Attraction to similar physical features was a well documented phenomenon with that strange biological fallacy that shared looks equalled shared genes equalled more chance of your genetic line carrying on. Case studies... frequent attraction between siblings who hadn't been raised together... Arthur had read the papers and evidently Eames had as well. It wasn't a bad first volley. Arthur repressed a shudder. It just wasn't a good one.

"Change back," he said flatly.

"This really makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?" Her voice was slightly more refined than the clotted cream accent that Eames habitually adopted but the unpredictable intelligence in her gaze was all him. "What I can never work out is whether it's because you don't like it or because you like it too much."

She leant forward as she talked, creating an intimacy between them and giving him the opportunity of a, probably very worthwhile, glimpse down her cleavage should he choose to take it.

"It's not you specifically, Eames," Arthur said with all the patience he could muster. "It's forging in general."

"And we must always be specific, mustn't we, Arthur?" The way she purred his name trod a careful line between coquettish and sardonic but she looked at him with large, solemn eyes as she said, "It's your call."

"For the purposes of this test I want you, as you, where I can see you." Arthur didn't think he could be much clearer than that.

Eames apparently thought so too. Between one blink and the next the real him was standing in front of Arthur; James Bond confidence and the cheesy grin to match.

"Arthur," he leaned against the bar, as elegant in his own way as he had been a moment before and even more dangerous, "I never knew you cared."

Arthur signalled the barman to bring them two more of what he had before.

"Don't get excited," he told Eames flatly. "I just like knowing who I'm dealing with."

"You were never like this about Penny," Eames pressed. "Absolutely scrupulous about getting the pronouns right, as I recall."

As if the two situations were in the slightest bit comparable. " _She_ was being who _she_ really was - not trying to be someone _she_ wasn't." Their drinks appeared and Arthur's projection read his mind and made himself scarce as Arthur glared at Eames. "Unlike you." He took his drink and tasted it. This round seemed to have come out a little bitter, and not just his if Eames's slight wince was anything to go by. He summoned the barman again for replacements. "You've said yourself," he pointed out reasonably as the barman hurried of to refill his order, "you've no interest in being anything other than a man."

Eames quirked an eyebrow. The man really did think he was Bond. And not one of the better Bonds either.

"Avoiding any distinction," Eames said in the same tone of voice as he might use to pass comment on the weather or what he wanted for breakfast, "on the difference between sexual organs and gender identity, of course, I believe I've actually said I was rather attached to my cock."

"I'm sorry," Arthur really, really wasn't, "are you trying to tell me that you identify as anything other than male?"

"Not in the slightest," Eames grinned amicably, "I was just pointing out the difference."

"Is this part of your technique, Eames?" Arthur said curiously, because the last thing he wanted to do was give Eames any reaction to his goading. If Eames wanted Arthur to call off this whole thing in a snit, making it Arthur's fault rather than Eames's, then he was going to have to do a lot better than that. "Because I have to say I'm not impressed so far." He shook his head in disappointment. "And all these years I've been giving you credit for assuming you'd tracked my background."

"Oh, I did." If the barb had stung then Eames wasn't showing it but then Eames could always forge himself a poker face if he wanted to. "But," Eames leant towards him as serious as Arthur had ever seen him, "we both know things can be less than clear cut." He drew back, out of Arthur's personal space. "I found the evidence less conclusive than the Board of Inquiry evidently did."

Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly. "Is that why you took the Beiuler case?"

"I might have had it in the back of my mind," Eames admitted. "Among a number of other things. Peaked my curiosity, so to speak."

"And?"

Eames shrugged. "One example does not a definitive hypothesis make."

"I realise that, Eames. I'm asking what you thought."

"I think anyone claiming to be able to make a definitive analysis is selling snake oil." Eames shrugged again, a subtly different roll of his shoulders that was more a statement of supposition than dismissal. "Sure, sometimes you can get a read but human nature comes with too many variations and vagaries. Some people want their fantasies to be reality, other people are only interested because it isn't real."

Arthur could feel Eames's gaze on him, watchful and insatiably curious, wanting to see how he was going to react. Arthur didn't want to know what he saw.

"You don't believe sexuality can be extracted?" he asked.

"You can try." Eames sipped his cocktail, eyes never leaving Arthur. "The answer you get might even be the right one. But that answer is going to depend on how you ask the question, how the subconscious of the mark interprets the question and how well the person knows themselves, even at a subconscious level. Denial can be very powerful." Eames shook his head. "Too much effort for unreliable results. Better to avoid risk where possible."

"And so the young lady," Arthur concluded.

Eames nodded. "I know your feelings towards women. Or at least that you had them," he corrected himself. "And don't try to deny it, I was there in Milan and you aren't nearly that good an actor. I was less positive of those towards men in general and myself in particular. I thought she might be easier for you."

That was... oddly touching.

"Mr Eames," Arthur looked him in the eye and found himself smiling, "when did you ever get the idea that I liked easy?"

"True enough," Eames laughed and levered himself away from the bar. With a little click of his heels he drew himself to attention and gave Arthur a simple and precise bow. "May I have this dance?"

"I'm leading," Arthur warned.

Sadly, Eames's enthusiasm appeared no way diminished by his condition. Stepping back to give Arthur room he swept his hand towards the dancers.

"I wouldn't expect anything else."

They were his projections so none of them looked askance at Arthur as he led Eames out to the edge of the dance area. As he got closer he could see there were a few other same-sex couples already on the floor, but whether they had been there all along or whether the dream shifted slightly when he'd accepted Eames's offer he wasn't sure.

"Mr Eames," he said formally and put out his hand. Eames flowed into position, poised to go at Arthur's silent prompting.

Arthur caught the beat and went.

The Viennese Waltz was one of Arthur's favourite dances, if it hadn't been his projections wouldn't have been going at it since the dream had started. In the original extraction the great hall had been filled with the very worst of wedding-disco pop. It had almost been a relief when the projections turned violent. He and Eames made it half-way down the long side of the hall, changing between natural and reverse turns as the crooner informed the room that she was going to spread her metaphorical wings and learn how to fly. Arthur was happy for her but more concerned with what was happening with Eames's feet.

"Having trouble, Eames?"

Eames pulled a face from where Arthur had contra-checked him but followed him gamely back into flow. "I'm not used to doing these steps without high heels. It's rather off-putting being in my own feet."

"I'm sure you'll adapt." One of the couples was making a meal of the next corner so Arthur took them into a fleckerl to buy time. "Where's this claimed versatility you keep boasting about?"

Which was unfair because Eames was a joy to lead, following Arthur's direction without resistance and balanced enough to be light on his feet despite his greater bulk. They made it round the next two corners without incident before a tangle of couples forced them into a hesitation.

"On the subject of which..." The fixed Blackpool smile didn't slip for a moment as Eames posed gracefully. "...just so we have everything clear," Arthur reeled him back in and headed them towards a likely-looking gap, "my hard list, so to speak: I'm good with oral," Arthur stumbled slightly, nearly having them over with the speed of the dance but Eames kept them up, ceding control back to Arthur as soon as he had got himself back together, and kept talking as if nothing had happened, "giving or receiving; anal, ditto - although I prefer not to be held down if I'm getting fucked, even in a dream... oop - behind you," Arthur was forced to take them into a rather sharp turn to avoid another couple he'd missed in his distraction, "...I'm sure you understand," Eames continued blithely, "vaginal - if I forge, I guess that's just receiving unless you've learnt some new tricks you want to share with the class; rimjobs; handjobs, both giving and receiving. I'm more of a 'feather' than a 'whole chicken' man but..."

"Jesus!" Arthur hissed. "Enough! I never thought I would say this but: too much information, Eames. I don't need a list of your every sordid little peccadillo."

Especially not during a Viennese Waltz.

"You might not but I do..." Eames retorted, "and an exchange of confidences is so much more civil, don't you agree? I'll show you mine and all that. I'm not asking for your entire sexual repertoire, I'm trying to find out what the limits of the exercise are."

Arthur realised they had just done an entire length of the hall with just natural turns and Eames was looking a little less steady under the bravado. To his relief the song came to an end, the singer successfully breaking away from whatever small town it was that she had wanted to leave behind and, with a bow, she stepped down to a polite ovation from the room.

"With you?" Arthur qualified, speaking from the side of his mouth as they faced the stage and went through the motions of applauding.

"If you would prefer to call this entire experiment off and spend some quality time alone with..." Eames made a slightly annoyed, confused noise.

"With my what, Eames?" Arthur said.

The band started up again, slower this time, and the projections swirled around them as some left the floor and others took their place.

"Actually, I've no idea how to finish that sentence." Eames's dissatisfaction was clear in his tone and Arthur tried not to be too pleased about that. "Which is rather my point." Eames turned back to Arthur, chin lifted slightly in challenge. "Privileged information and all that, but this'll go a lot easier for both of us if we know each other's limits for this run. A little co-operation would be appreciated here, Arthur."

Given the looks they were getting from the projections who were being forced to go around them Eames wasn't the only one who would appreciate Arthur going with the flow. Taking Eames in hold, Arthur moved them off before anything more could be said. It wasn't much of an excuse - if Eames could list his preferences in too graphic detail during a fast waltz then Arthur could certainly do so during a slow one - but Eames seemed to recognise that Arthur needed a moment to think and was mercifully silent as he followed where Arthur led.

There was, Arthur decided, something a little off-putting about the clinical way that Eames was approaching the whole situation. Discovering that Eames regarded even the possibility of sex with him as comparable to planning an expedition into enemy territory was not the boost to his ego that he'd expected. He'd been perfectly happy being enemy territory - or at least a slightly hostile, neutral power. While it should have been reassuring that Eames was taking it seriously rather than treating it as a joke, Arthur found himself dissatisfied with that state of affairs.

It wasn't that Eames was bad looking or unintelligent. Although the latter, while unappealing, might have made the entire thing easier. Or at least easier to dismiss afterwards if Eames's trick didn't work. Arthur, as much as he hated to admit it, respected Eames's ability, but experience and plain common sense had taught him that hope and assumption were not to be relied on and it wouldn't be much of a deception if he just let it work. They'd both come this far on sheer bloody-mindedness. If they went any further it would have to be in the full knowledge that, as Eames had gone to some lengths to point out, there was a good chance they would end up with carnal knowledge of each other. Was that something he could work with in the future?

Eames was dancing with a simple grace, eyes fixed firmly over Arthur's right shoulder where they should be. Had Arthur considered it he would have known that Eames could be like this, it was his job after all. He knew it was a con, but that was the point of the whole exercise, wasn't it? The question was, could he bring himself to let Eames con him for the space of a dream just to regain the détente that barely existed between them?

A little pressure against Eames's right hand and they slid smoothly into a whisk and chasse allowing him to easily catch Eames's eye during the subsequent spin turn.

"Alright," he said. "Within the limits of this experiment..."

"That's all I'm asking, love," Eames said with completely misplaced enthusiasm.

Arthur checked him, for emphasis rather than necessary, and said very clearly, "Lose the pet names, for a start."

"That's the spirit."

Arthur moved them off again, very conscious that their relative positions had slipped from the traditional hold to something more intimate.

"Let's leave the forging out of this - as I said, I want you where I can see you and as you," Arthur ruled. "No getting creative. Otherwise, your list sounded fine." Damn Eames, because he could feel the slight prickle of a blush on his skin and that definitely wasn't acceptable. "Does your prohibition on being held down extend to disliking penetration when you can't see your partner clearly?"

Call him a coward but Arthur wasn't sure he could look Eames in the face if things degenerated that far.

Eames's expression was knowing. "Nah," he said easily. "I prefer to be able to see if my hands are tied but as long as I'm not heavily pinned it's good. Toys?"

Arthur shook his head. "Let's keep it simple." Was he really doing this? Apparently he was. "If I find out that this isn't all necessary - I will shoot you." Eames nodded his understanding and acceptance. "Right, given all the other places you've just offered to stick your mouth - do you have any proscriptions on kissing?" Because anything was better than Eames's continued talking.

"On the contrary," Eames said with a rough smile, so different from the one he'd pasted on before, "I absolutely encourage it. If you would do me the honour..."

Arthur ushered him into a dip - it seemed appropriate and the kiss a natural extension of it. It took them both past that first awkward hesitancy and into the second - an almost innocent peck on the lips becoming something more. The kiss, and it was definitely a kiss, was a little tentative. It was, Arthur found, difficult to make the necessary mental shift from occasional-colleague and frequent annoyance, to something more personal. Eames was either having the same trouble as Arthur or was deliberately playing up to Arthur's ambivalence.

He righted Eames once more. Their second kiss was better; both reassured that neither party was about to run screaming or give the other a bloody lip. They swayed gently to the music, a simple box step that required neither thought nor frame to maintain as they negotiated the shared lead of a very different measure.

"Hmm, what is this piece?" Eames murmured, the warm breath of each word curling against the soft hair below Arthur's ear, "I rather like it."

"What?" It took a moment for Arthur to realise what Eames was talking about but that might've had something to do with the soft, open kiss that Eames was pressing against the hinge of his jaw concurrent to his statement. "Oh - the Winter Waltz, I think." They were, he realised, almost stationary and making out in the middle of the ballroom. That might work in films but outside of the silver screen it wasn't anything other than an annoyance to everyone else. "We should probably take this off the dance floor before we cause a scene."

"Your projections don't like a show?" Eames didn't sound particularly distressed by the idea but hurried on as Arthur stiffened in instinctive objection. "At the risk of being cliché," Eames withdrew slightly, stepping clear of Arthur's loose hold just far enough to be able to look directly at him. "I've a room upstairs."

"A necessary part of the scam?" Arthur asked, caring less than was probably wise about what the answer was. He assumed Eames meant the same room that they had used in the extraction and for the exact same reason.

"Vital," Eames confirmed. He reached out carefully and ran his thumb along the curve of Arthur's lower lip. His eyes glinted with curious wonder, that here was another piece to the Arthur-puzzle that he was building up in his mind. "Vital," he repeated softly.

That was quite enough of that - Arthur was here to see Eames's supposed trick or, failing that, to fuck him. Getting figured out by Eames, any more than he had been already, was definitely not on the agenda. Which meant making sure Eames was too distracted to think about analysing him. At least until afterwards.

It was easier than he expected to tangle his fingers in Eames's shirt and pull him forward and getting ever more easier to cover Eames's mouth with his own and press himself against the full lips. The round of applause startled him into breaking the kiss. He looked around, mortified at his level of conceit as he realised that the cheers were to greet the new singer stepping up to the microphone.

"Let's get out of here," Arthur covered his slip.

Behind them the new vocalist asked the world if the existence of his paramour was just a dream, as if that might not be a desirable state of affairs. Nat King Cole had clearly not been in Arthur's current situation. But then he doubted many had.

They made it off the dance floor before Eames took advantage of the need to navigate the ring of tables to plaster himself to Arthur's back and nuzzle at his neck. Arthur stiffened, only realising what he had done when Eames backed off immediately.

"No," Arthur caught Eames's arm and pulled him back against him. "You surprised me."

"You know this is not going to work unless you relax," Eames rumbled and Arthur nodded because he did know. It was a problem. Arthur was about finding solutions. There was a pillar just outside the seating area which Arthur thought would do very nicely for the first step in resolving the difficulty.

Pressing against Eames was like pressing against a warm, and very slightly yielding, rock-face. Or an ultra-firm mattress with its own internal heating system. It was something Arthur already knew, they'd been thrown together and against each other on enough previous occasions that Arthur could hardly be unaware that Eames was solid. And it wasn't as if Arthur, although comparatively slimmer in build, was exactly waif-like or spindly himself. But all those previous occasions had been work and he'd been concerned with other things - people chasing them, not being shot, getting to or away from the mark, avoiding falling masonry etc. - to think of Eames as anything other than well... Eames. And maybe this was a mistake but he'd fucked colleagues before without it being a complete disaster afterwards so he could certainly make out with one, understandings firmly in place, without it becoming an issue. Even if it was Eames.

It wasn't as if Eames was difficult to kiss. The opposite if anything, which was an issue because Arthur didn't trust easy. He'd walked on the grey edge of the law for long enough to believe that if the first one was free you probably can't afford the cost, and he was perilously close to thinking that the thrilling touch of Eames's mouth and the slick flick of his tongue were worth the price.

They kissed like it was a competition, and maybe it was; both wanting to distract the other and keep the upper hand. It had the added advantage that they both seemed to be winning.

They pulled apart reluctantly. Arthur realised that Eames's hands had been gripped in the back of his jacket, probably doing irreversible things to the line while he in turn had wreaked comparable damage to Eames's coiffure, although that was less of a loss. Eames wore dishevelled well, hair falling down out of its hard style to frame his eyes and give him a slightly younger, more vulnerable look. He looked at Arthur with wide eyes that made him wonder how much more appealing Eames would look by the time they made it to debauched.

"Arthur." Eames's voice was a low purr, delighted and intrigued. At any other time it would have irritated Arthur completely but as time-and-place went, this was the right one. That was all the warning Arthur got before their positions were reversed and it was Arthur's turn to become better acquainted with the pillar as Eames surged against him.

"I thought you said you had a room?" Arthur managed to gasp between kisses.

Eames looked completely confused for a moment and then muttered, "Right, room, yeah," as if he'd had to remind himself what the hell Arthur was talking about. Or why it was a bad plan to just fuck each other in the middle of a large room full of projections. "Room," he agreed and took Arthur by the hand to lead the way.

As it turned out the hallway had an interesting little cubby hole that just fit the pair of them when instinct dragged them in there at the sight of an oncoming projection. At least that was Arthur's excuse and he was sticking to it - not that Eames seemed predisposed to question the action.

"Why did we take so long to do this?" Eames said against the skin of his throat, breath hot and moist and not quite tickling the sensitive skin above the line of Arthur's shirt. It made Arthur squirm which made Eames scrape gentle teeth over the spot to make him do it again before laving it better with tongue and lips.

"We are not doing this now, Eames." Even if it was getting harder to remember that fact "You're showing me your supposed trick." If his voice broke slightly on the last word it was because Eames had cupped his erection through the fine worsted wool of his trousers and was proceeding to run interested fingers over the firming ridge.

"Guess it isn't working," Eames said. "What a shame. You want to stop or are you good to keep trying?"

He didn't even pause as he ran his hand along the growing length of Arthur's cock, coaxing it to full hardness. He also didn't sound particularly sorry.

"I think I can give you a few more minutes' grace," Arthur allowed generously. He had one hand full of the firm muscle of Eames's behind and the other cradling the back of Eames's head just in case he did something stupid like try to move away.

"I do hope you are talking real-time," Eames mumbled because there really wasn't a situation where he wouldn't try to be a smartass.

A polite cough interrupted them. Turning slowly, they were confronted with an apologetic looking projection in a hotel uniform.

"I'm sorry, sirs," he said, a little red faced, "I need to get to the cupboard."

Behind them an inconspicuous white door stood innocently in the inset wall of their 'hiding' place.

"Sorry," Eames wheezed at the projection, "we'll just..." he gestured towards the main reception and the elevators.

"Have a good evening, sirs," the projection said agreeably and Arthur tried not to be horrified. If Eames actually laughed, Arthur was going to shoot him and end the entire farce.

They had only gone a few feet when Eames slotted himself next to Arthur, head against Arthur's shoulder and arm tucked familiarly around his waist.

"Don't be like that," Eames said softly.

Arthur could feel the snap of 'like what?' rising in his throat, which answered its own question.

"Sorry," he said instead. It came out a little grudging, especially since it wasn't Eames's fault. Eames didn't seem to mind, reaching out with his free hand to cup Arthur's jaw and turn his face into a gentle kiss.

"God, there are so many things..." Eames whispered hoarsely and then stopped himself.

"Upstairs," Arthur said shortly.

There was an elevator waiting and they slammed into it, Eames reaching out almost blindly for the floor buttons as they crashed against the wall in a tangle of limbs.

"What do you want, Arthur?" Eames gasped.

Right at that moment, Arthur wanted was Eames a lot more naked. The hard nubs of Eames's nipples dimpled his shirt in flagrant disregard for proprietary and the thoughts that such a display might give people. Brits apparently didn't go in for undershirts to prevent that sort of crudeness in the same way they didn't go in for trimming body hair or acceptable levels of dentistry (although under torture Arthur might admit to not actually having a problem, per se, with Eames's slightly uneven teeth. Or the body hair. Or the lack of undershirt). Arthur wanted to feel the tight peaks of flesh without the chaperone of cloth, run his lips over them to see how it made Eames react and trace the hard planes of Eames's chest and stomach because he could.

None of which was going to happen until their hotel room door was firmly shut and locked behind them and he wasn't about to tempt fate, or Eames, by suggesting anything along those lines. Eames didn't appear particularly dissuaded by Arthur's silence, but then the little moan of satisfaction he'd given when his hand had found Arthur's cock again suggested that he could manage the vocals on his own without any help from Arthur if needed.

"If you won't tell me what you want then maybe I should make a few suggestions?" Eames kissed the words into Arthur's skin, branding them there. "How about we start with my sucking your dick? There are lots of ways that could go but I rather think you'd like me down on my knees. Am I wrong?"

"It's not..." Arthur wanted to say 'necessary' but the word wouldn't come, not when Eames's tongue was tracing stripes along his neck.

"It's okay, Arthur," Eames murmured, "I wouldn't have offered otherwise. All those times you've wished you could shut me up... here's your chance: take that fat cock of yours, stuff it down my throat and make me..."

"Fucking hell, Eames," Arthur blurted. That visual would keep him up for a month.

He could feel Eames smile, lips stretching wide. "I thought you'd like that. The next time I'm being particularly trying to your sensibilities you can think of me on my knees and how much better you like me when I'm quiet."

Arthur didn't do illegal extraction any more - at least that's what he told himself. There was enough challenge in what he did do that it might even stick. But that didn't mean he and Eames wouldn't work together again and they would clash - they always did. And that was ignoring their current job which held more than enough opportunities for disagreement and had the added complication of Eames's ex watching them with sharp eyes and a sharper mind.

"No," Arthur said desperately. It would happen in public as well, they were worse in public, Eames played up to the audience and Arthur hadn't yet found a way to reliably stop Eames's games getting to him. Hell, for all he knew this was another of Eames's games. A little loss now for a bigger payoff in the future.

Eames draw back to look at him, unsure what he had done wrong. Arthur put his hand to Eames jaw, catching him and holding him still so he couldn't resume his welcome assault on Arthur's restraint until Arthur had said his piece.

"Next time we argue I don't want that to be what I'm thinking of." Even Arthur was a little surprised by his own vehemence. "We'll fight our battles on their own terms, as we always have, without adding that to the mix." Eames stared at him with wide, surprised eyes, made wider still by distension of his pupils. "You want to be dominated," Arthur forced himself not to think too hard about the words coming out of his mouth, "we can do that - but don't hand me that power because you think I want payback for every slight, insult and outright libel you've perpetrated."

Eames was silent, taking in what Arthur was saying, Arthur's hand still cupping his face.

"You really are hell to talk dirty to."

Arthur could see the moment Eames broke character and he breathed out, unaccountably relieved. "That's all it was?"

Eames gave a little shrug as the elevator dinged to a stop, taking Arthur's hand from where it held him and into his own.

"Unless you went for it." He ushered Arthur out with a kiss to his knuckles. "I genuinely have no objection to sucking your cock. As part of the experiment of course."

"Of course," Arthur echoed. He should have done this from the start - Eames always worked better with firm boundaries. "Let's keep it simple; I'm topping. You want to blow me first... I have no objection but I'm not asking for it."

"Understood." Eames kissed his hand again and then leaned forwards to kiss his lips.

"No more games, Mr Eames," Arthur warned. "When I said I wanted to see you I wasn't just talking about the forging."

Eames paused, pitched forwards but not quite enough to complete the action.

"You like living dangerously, don't you, Arthur?" he said.

Arthur frowned at him but didn't step back. "What do you mean?"

Eames's free hand came up to touch Arthur's cheek with a half-closed fist, stroking down the line of his jaw. The gesture was not patronising or mocking but the bright intensity in Eames's observation of him made him uncomfortable.

Which Arthur suspected was the intention as Eames said, "You're not leaving either of us many masks to hide behind."

Arthur stared back obstinately. "That is my point." He shook Eames off, not wanting the distraction of touch to mute his argument. "No masks."

"Dangerous," Eames breathed. It didn't sound to Arthur like a complaint. Then he swayed the necessary bit closer and kissed Arthur full on the mouth.

"What did I just say?" Arthur pushed him away gently, ready to be more forceful if Eames resisted.

Eames held Arthur's eyes. "And if this isn't a mask?"

Arthur's breath caught as he understood what Eames was saying. "Is it?"

Eames shook his head. "I can't promise more than honest lust - but allow me that at least?"

Arthur let him close the distance.

It's possible to walk and kiss at the same time. Not easy but possible. Eames managed to get them to the right door with only one breakage - it was a dreadful picture anyway - and a few bruises where they bounced off a inconveniently placed corner and someone else's doorknob.

Arthur's bowtie was sacrificed first, lost somewhere on the floor between the first and second turning. Eames's breath huffed warm on his skin as Eames burrowed into the newly opened neck of his shirt to suck kisses into the join of his neck and along the ridge of his collarbone. Not to be outdone, Arthur attacked Eames's shirt in return - disposing of buttons with merciless efficiency to get his hands on the warm skin below.

"Here," Eames said urgently when they almost went past their destination, "this... here."

The keycard was in Eames's jacket pocket, Arthur found it eventually. By then Eames had found his way into Arthur's pants and had one hand wrapped around his cock; firm, warm pressure of skin on skin and completely inappropriate.

They burst into the room, slamming the door closed behind them with their bodies. They broke apart long to navigate through the entrance area of the suite and into the bedroom. Enough time for Eames to undo his bowtie and the top button which had escaped Arthur's attention and pull the tails from his trousers but not get any further before Arthur tackled him onto the bed. They rolled, tangled together, fighting for skin more than dominance. Arthur pinned Eames, or Eames let himself be pinned, to the bed, hands above his head and Arthur astride his hips. They kissed, dirty and open-mouthed, rocking against each other.

"Arthur," Eames panted, "damn-it, Arthur."

Arthur bit the arch of his throat, letting go of Eames's wrists to work his way down Eames's body. "What?"

"Lube," there was a definite desperate note to Eames's voice, the syllables shattering under the strain. "We need lube."

"We're in a dream," Arthur pointed out logically, "we don't need anything."

He wasn't mentioning that time with mark and the tentacles. He wasn't thinking about that time with the mark and tentacles. He was all for paradoxes but something that size did not fit somewhere like that. Not on a human body. But that whole job had been a mistake.

"Arthur," Eames kissed him hard, "we are in my mind and about to be in my arse," he said a little apologetically, "and it's rather conditioned to believe it does."

It wasn't like Eames was being unreasonable.

"Fine." Arthur was pretty sure he would feel the same way if their situations were reversed. But then he'd have had the good sense to plan ahead and stash some lube under the pillow or in the bedside cabinet. He reached out a hand and pulled the drawer open. A gun but no lube. He stared down at Eames in dawning horror. "Eames - where is it?"

"Uh..." Eames flailed.

Arthur rolled off him. "Eames!"

"I didn't think we'd get this far," Eames protested. He looked wildly around the room. "The bathroom!" he said triumphantly. "There's some in the bathroom cabinet." He scrambled off the bed as he spoke. "I'll get it."

"Now, Eames!" Arthur ordered, palming his erection through his trousers.

"God," Eames moaned, stealing one last kiss, thief that he was, as he went. "Believe me - I will be right back and then you can have your wicked way with me."

"Yes," Arthur agreed, following him to the edge of the bed rather than breaking the kiss.

"Right back," Eames whined as he pulled away. "Believe me."

"Quick, Eames," Arthur urged, and pushed.

And Eames was gone. For their comfort and convenience the bathroom was off the entrance way rather than directly off the bedroom and Arthur could follow Eames's progress only by the clumsy bumps and muttered swearing as he searched. The room went quiet. Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

"Come on, Eames," He shouted through to him when the silence stretched. "If you can't find any then bring the hand..."

He stopped as Eames reappeared, lube in his hand.

"Took your time," Arthur grumbled. "Get over here."

Eames got. At the edge of the bed he dropped to his knees and whatever crap Arthur had been spouting earlier about not wanting this dried in his throat.

"Yeah," Arthur agreed as Eames lowered his head to nuzzle against the line of his erection. He could field strip and reassemble a Glock 17 in under a minute, blindfolded, but even with the button already undone the fly of his pants seemed to be beyond his dexterity. Eames helped, or at least didn't actively hinder which Arthur thought of as the same thing, and together they got his trousers open. His erection tented the material of his boxer-briefs, springing up like a jack-in-the-box as space was made for it.

Eames made a happy little noise in the back of his throat and it was all Arthur could do to lift up enough to get his trousers and underwear down over his ass. As Eames was helping him push them down and out of the way, he had a brief pang of realisation that he still had his shoes and socks on but then Eames mouth and hand were wrapped around his cock and he stopped caring. Feeling he should be doing something, Arthur petted Eames's hair. Eames looked up at him through the wayward fringe, sucking obscenely at the hard flesh with happy abandon. With the hand that wasn't on the base of Arthur's cock, Eames caught Arthur's hand and brought in to rest against his check. Arthur could feel the stretch of his jaw, the play of throat and muscle as worked. Reaching out with his thumb, Arthur brushed it over Eames's lip as Eames had done to him earlier, feeling the drag of slick skin and plump softness pulled tight by the different forces acting on it. Eames's eyes fluttered shut.

It wasn't going to be so easy to forget this the next time Eames opened his smart mouth. Or the time after that. Or...

Eames slowly let his guiding hand drop, resting both on Arthur's thighs as he took Arthur deeper. Arthur leant back to give him room, propping himself up on one arm so he could still touch Eames's face and hair. He almost regretted that Eames had chosen to be clean shaven for this dream, it would have been nice to feel the slight roughness of stubble against the pads of his fingers, against the sensitive places that Eames brushed. He could have asked Eames to add some but he wasn't prepared to ask for anything - they were both giving enough away as it was. And the smoothness would help him differentiate what happened in the dream from their everyday reality. He suddenly saw Eames's point about this being dangerous but it was too late for second thoughts on that score - sometimes you had to go with what you had and when you had Eames's head in your lap and your cock down his throat then you couldn't be doing too badly.

Arthur twisted his fingers a little more through Eames's hair and Eames hummed, a little, questioning, positive noise. Arthur wasn't really guiding Eames's movements as he bobbed, no more than an actor was controlling their partner when they appeared to pull them by the hair, but there was a certain satisfaction in the feel of Eames's head under his fingers and the feel of him responding to Arthur's touch. He tensed as Eames found a particularly sensitive spot, breath hissing out of him in a rush.

It was nice; lazy and generous without the worry of finishing too soon but Arthur wanted more.

"Eames," he said, the name coming out as little more than a croak.

Eames looked at him along the length of his body with all the hunger that Arthur was feeling in his heated gaze. Arthur didn't need to say anything. Eames pulled off his cock with one last lick and stood.

"You have too many clothes on," Arthur pointed out needlessly. Not that it wasn't a good look - the open white shirt framing the broad chest and rippled, firm stomach. Just as he remembered it. The light pelt of hair that covered his pecs and abdomen hadn't changed, drawing Arthur's eyes down, as it had before, past the kiss of his bellybutton and lower still. Only this time Arthur's view was obscured by the otherwise perfect line of his trousers. "Let me see you."

Eames obliged, pushing his shirt all the way off before turning his attention to his lower body. Shoes and socks first, as it should be, and then trousers undone and lowered. He wore nothing underneath except his ego.

It was good to see that Arthur hadn't been the only one enjoying events up until that point. Eames's cock stood proud from his body, a little curved but no more than most, head flushed and dark with blood, glistening slightly with pre-come.

'Yes,' Arthur thought. He'd known it would be like that. Not the biggest he'd seen but nothing to be ashamed of; a good size to suck or fist or be fucked by. On another occasion... on another person... it would have been perfect for any of those things. But this was here and now and Eames.

Arthur kicked off his own shoes and rid himself of his trousers and socks before he got up from the bed. A man hobbled by his own clothing was not a good sight. Eames took advantage of his move to claim the bed as his own. Flopping back, arms wide and relaxed, Eames caught Arthur's eye and drew his knees up and apart to display himself completely. That was... holy fucking hell! It wasn't that Arthur was a prude, or that he wasn't planning on getting a lot more closely acquainted with the otherwise private parts of Eames but there was putting it out there and putting it out there. Not that Arthur could stop staring at the dark wash of hair that covered his balls and tickled down the line of his inner leg; the muscular curves, corded thighs smoothing into high, firm buttocks which Eames had rolled up enough to reveal as more than a line of flesh squashed into the duvet. The taunt muscle had the secondary affect of pulling his cheeks apart, showing off the smooth, darker skin between and the tight puce-pink knot of his asshole.

"You really are completely shameless?" Arthur said because apparently his internal filter had short circuited and he was just saying whatever came into his head. "Have you even considered how this might effect our working relationship?"

"What working relationship?" Eames dismissed the idea. He wrapped his own hand around his cock and pumped as if he thought Arthur needed a bit more illustration of what he should be doing. "You think I'm an untrustworthy, thieving whore and I think you're an anal-retentive spoilsport. I think our 'working' relationship can only improve. And at the risk of making the obvious joke..."

"Don't," Arthur begged.

The lube was where Eames had discarded it on the floor and Arthur scooped it up. Eames grinned at him as he squeezed some onto his fingers, It was chill, warming slowly against the heat of his hand. He knelt on the bed between Eames's raised feet and brushed along the sharp cleft of his ass with a dry finger. Eames pushed into the touch, shifting slightly to get Arthur where he wanted him. Arthur took the hint, pressing gently with one slick finger and then the other. Somehow he wasn't surprised by the resistance - Eames talked a good game but Arthur had long suspected that it was more talk than substance. Whether it really had been a while for Eames topside or was just Eames's view of himself such that it made it seem that way in the dream Arthur neither knew nor cared. He added a bit more lube to his fingers, taking it slow until he could finger-fuck Eames with ease. Eames for his part was making wheezy, pleased noises as he rocked onto Arthur's crooked digits, one hand digging into the bed covers and the other holding tightly around the base of his erection, not wanting to pump but not wanting to let go either...

He's beautiful like this Arthur thinks, Sardonic eyes hidden behind lowered lashes, full lip caught in his teeth as he tries to keep the vocal sounds of his pleasure inside, body spread out and open to Arthur's desire and touch. And Arthur's going to take full advantage of that. Eames's eyes open when he slips his fingers out, the gasped objection not quite making it into recognisable words. A quick cover of lube slicked over his cock, added cold in his hurry - he wants to be merciful to both of them.

It seems a little silly to ask if Eames's ready, if he's sure, but Arthur wants to know anyway. He opens his mouth to ask but Eames beats him to it.

"Arthur," he whispers and that's enough.

A brief moment of opposition and then Eames is choking off a needy moan and Arthur is in. He still takes it slowly, working his way deeper with short careful thrusts until Eames is scrabbling at him with ineffectual fingers to try and force him harder and faster. They both pause for breath when Arthur is as nestled as far in as he can go, staring at each other with dumb shock that they're actually there. Arthur carefully angles himself forward until he's plastered along Eames's body, Eames legs hooked around his back. He can do it now - lick and kiss Eames's tight, pink nipples, roll them between his fingers as he thrusts. He kisses Eames open mouthed and dirty, and Eames kisses back as much as he can, gasping into Arthur's mouth as Arthur fucks him...

It was... actually a bit flat. It wasn't _bad_ \- Eames was responsive, his body tight and hot around Arthur's cock as he arched into each thrust, but there was something not quite there. They should have been at the perfect distance - not close enough to be _friends_ but close enough that they could get through a night sharing a room in the real world without needing to have one eye on the door and one hand on the nearest available weapon at every moment. And it hadn't gone unnoticed that their clashes gave off enough sparks to start a forest fire when they worked together so Arthur had sort of assumed that, if they did end up in bed together, some of that heat would carry over. It wasn't something he _dwelt_ on... but it might have crossed his mind a time or two. When he was alone and otherwise unoccupied. It should have been easier admitting those thoughts to himself when he was balls-deep in the man in question.

More of a problem was that he wasn't really getting anywhere. It wasn't like kissing his brother or, more disturbingly but more accurately, fucking his brother. Thankfully, he didn't have an actual brother so he wasn't able to make a direct comparison - not that he would be able to if he did have a brother - but that was the applicable idiom and it didn't seem quite right. It was just he'd expected more. He'd expected the type of sex where he wouldn't be thinking about how it euphemistically compared to hypothetical sex with a brother he didn't have. Or thinking at all really.

"Over." Arthur gave Eames's hip a little shove just in case he wasn't being clear.

Eames flipped over with alacrity and crawled a little further up the bed on all fours. Whatever the problem was it definitely wasn't lack of attraction. The furred backs of Eames's legs and the lean, lush ass had never look so inviting. Arthur moved up behind him, nudging Eames's knees slightly further apart and spreading the round cheeks to better explore the shadowed valley between. Eames's pucker was shiny with lube, slightly puffy from exertion and begging to be touched. Arthur couldn't resist, pressing with his thumb he teased the tight ring of muscle; push and release, push and release. Eames moaned, thrusting his hips back in demand for more. So damn slick and giving, constricting around his thumb-tip as it slid in like it didn't want to let go.

He could feel his interest rising again, the idea that he was going to be fucking that wonderful hole. His cock forcing it even wider, stretching and holding it open as it held him in turn. He didn't ask this time, lining himself up he pushed in in one long, even glide. Eames keened in the back of his throat, a wounded noise of satisfaction, and Arthur slammed into him again. Reaching around he found Eames's hand was already on his cock and he batted it away so that his could take its place. He let Eames find a rhythm between the slicked ring of Arthur's hand and the strong thrust of his cock, more turned on by the assorted sounds of enjoyment that he was forcing from Eames's throat than the reality of what he was doing.

So it wasn't great - barely at the level of a good jack-off, but a good jack-off wasn't to be scoffed at so no reason other than he'd got it into his head to expect Fourth of July fireworks. Maybe they should go back to tugging each other off in the hallways - that'd seemed to work for them. And maybe not, sometimes you just had to acknowledge the fantasy was better than the reality and let it go. At least one of them was enjoying himself.

"Not bad," an all too familiar voice said from behind him, "but you should probably know I have a tattoo on my arse."

'Eames sandwich!' said his brain. The Eames beneath him grunted slightly and he realised he might have put a little extra emphasis into the last thrust.

"Fucking hell!" said his mouth.

The Eames in the entranceway of the room grinned at him. "Don't stop on my account. Although 'whore'? Arthur, I thought you were better than that. And, for the record, I don't think of you as an anal-retentive spoilsport. Although I might have wondered occasionally if you were one of those people who were as staid in the bedroom as they were out of it or one of the ones who turned out to be complete firecrackers."

"And now you think you know," Arthur snapped viciously.

Eames paid no heed to his tone. "Hardly the right venue or circumstances to answer important questions like that. Although you'll have to forgive me if the question occurs to me a touch more often now. You, of course, have my complete permission to wonder the same in return... Although I feel I should break it to you - I'm not quite that..." he waved his hand at the projection, leaving Arthur to speculate which of the many qualities of the projection he wasn't laying claim to.

Arthur was not having this conversation naked. Or with his cock stuck up a Eames's double which, he realised, it still was, although shock and chagrin were rapidly solving that problem for him. He still had some pride and he decided it would be better served by his ending things on his own terms rather than going soft and flopping out of not!Eames's ass like a stranded fish.

"Look the other god damn way," he growled at Eames.

Eames obligingly slapped his hand over his eyes and turned his back. Arthur grabbed the first pair of trousers he could see, Eames's from the size when he pulled them on. They were a little unpleasantly damp around the crotch. The shirt was also going to be too big and he was going to look ridiculous. Although that ship had pretty much sailed. Buttoning himself up he cleared his throat to let Eames, the real Eames, know he was ready. The fake Eames was sitting on the bed looking between them with a look of growing anger. Which, Arthur supposed, was not unsurprising - it was apparently his projection after all.

Which actually explained quite a lot.

Eames turned back around but rather than addressing Arthur he stared at the projection with unabashed glee.

"Really, Arthur," he said lightly, "I hadn't realised that you had such a good opinion of me." The eyebrows went up. "And cut," he admonished. "How very American."

"What?" Arthur snapped, dragging Eames attention back to him.

"When I told you to dream a little bigger, that wasn't..." Eames began, waving a hand towards his double.

"Shut up, Eames."

Eames shut up briefly, but only as long as it took him to shake his head in feigned concern, "I'm actually feeling a little intimidated by Long Dong Silver over there."

Arthur forced himself to be calm despite the adrenaline coursing through him and hammering 'fight, flight, or fuck' into his brain. "You are making more of this, then..." Arthur caught sight of the projection as it got off the bed, and did a double-take. "Literally I see." It was all too much. "Eames," he sighed, "please stop trying to influence my projections." He was pretty sure it hadn't been like that before although at that moment he wouldn't have been ready to swear that the cloudless sky was blue. "More than you have already."

Whatever Eames had been about to say was lost as the projection went for him and Arthur dived for the gun he'd seen in the bedside drawer.

~~~~

Arthur woke up with a noticeable tightness in his balls and the deep-seated dissatisfaction that he hadn't shot Eames nearly enough. And to Eames glaring at him as if Arthur had done something wrong.

"I hope you aren't going to claim that you couldn't tell us apart?" Eames said waspishly.

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur retorted, cut to the quick by the knowledge that he hadn't been able to tell them apart, not until Eames had revealed the deception. Which had been the point of the entire exercise. But that wasn't what Eames was talking about. "You were the one wearing clothes."

"And yet," Eames's tone hadn't become any less pointed, "I can't help but notice it was me you shot."

Arthur gave a one armed shrug, fiddling with his line. He wanted to pull it out and declare the entire thing done but that was peevishness rather than professionalism talking.

"You'd proved your point," he said as evenly as he could. "There didn't seem any reason to keep the charade going."

Eames's amused twinkle told Arthur he wasn't buying it.

"I don't know," he had the good grace, or self-preservation, not to gloat too obviously but Arthur was surprised to find his triumph a little sad, "the situation could've been salvaged..." Arthur was at a loss to think how, Before he could say as much Eames added, "I think your projection rather liked me really."

If Eames seriously interpreted the projection's actions as affectionate then Arthur was going to have a long conversation with Nicholas which might or might not involve blunt objects. And then every single one of Eames's exes that he could track down.

"He was trying to rip your head off," Arthur objected.

"He was also," Eames pointed out with relish, "humping my leg."

Arthur could have gone on happily without knowing that. Or the mental images it was giving him; it didn't take very much imagination at all to see two men grappling and rolling around on the floor as something totally unconnected with violence. At least he didn't need to procure a cosh.

"I am not having this discussion now," Arthur said decisively, eyes on the light socket where one of the bugs was housed.

"Ah," Eames breath of understanding was almost silent. "My brain or yours?"

Arthur weighed the options but there really was only one choice.

"Mine. Unless you think you're good enough to keep my projections away." The chances of his subconscious 'accidentally' dropping a house on Eames's head were, thankfully, somewhat lower and less distracting. He wouldn't even sing 'ding-dong, the witch is dead,' if it happened. Or a more apposite variation of the lyrics. It would be nice to have the home court advantage.

"Afraid they might rip my clothes off?" Eames joked.

"Followed by your limbs."

Eames eyes widened at Arthur's flat statement and he gave a little nod. Adjusting the PASIV he looked back at Arthur, all witticism gone. "Ready?'

"Just do it," Arthur said tiredly. The sooner they got this done with the better.

The room Arthur dreamed them into was small and cosy. A classic student's garret apartment with a tumble of books and miscellany strewn across every flat surface and a few half-finished plans pinned to the easel propped in the corner. Arthur went to the glass door that led to the balcony and looked out. He'd forgone the trite view of the Eiffel Tower for one of Notre Dame. Or a cathedral with a vague resemblance to Notre Dame.The gargoyles and the other grotesques leered at him across the way. They reminded him of Eames. He was being unfair, but knowing that to be the case and preventing it were two very different things.

"Would throwing things help?" Eames asked. Sincerely as far as Arthur could tell, but then they'd just proved that he couldn't tell very much at all. "It's France, so I doubt anyone will care."

"Believe me?" Arthur repeated Eames's words, the last words he thought the real Eames had said to him before the switch, with a faintly mocking disbelief, completely ignoring Eames's suggestion.

"My deepest apologies for not meeting your exacting standards for pillow talk during a con," Eames muttered.

And that really was the crux of it, wasn't it? Not Arthur's professional pride, he would get over that, but how easily he had fallen for the line Eames had fed him.

"How much of what you said was the con?" he said, fully expecting the answer to be all of it.

He couldn't get very far away from Eames in this poky little room, couldn't do very much as Eames came over to join him. The chill spring light didn't leave many shadows for either of them to hide in. But them their masks had already been dropped - at his assistance. He'd been so focused on Eames he hadn't thought that he might be the one exposed. And he'd still missed the most important thing.

"You know what they say about the best lies, darling," Eames said ruefully.

"And you know what I said about pet names."

Better by far to focus on the little details than wonder about the larger truths.

"But that was just within the limits of the experiment," Eames gave him what he clearly thought was a winning smile although it barely got out of the gate. "You really were very specific on that point."

"You're an asshole," Arthur informed him with conviction.

"See," Eames said happily. "Wine?"

They drank their wine out on the balcony, the weather bitter enough that they needed their coats but otherwise dry and beautiful. There was something typically Parisian about that.

"Where did you pick that trick up?" Arthur asked at last.

Eames looked up from the plate of bread and cheese he'd put together from somewhere and shrugged. "Shabby little whorehouse in Bangkok."

Arthur was glad he didn't have a mouthful of wine at that moment. His mind came with a very good wine cellar and it would have been a shame to waste it, even metaphorically. "I'm almost afraid to ask if you were buying or selling."

Eames pouted. "Neither." He popped a chunk of bread and cheese in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Manager got the idea they could use the PASIV to cater to the more unpleasant side of the sex tourism industry with a 'no harm, no foul' guarantee," he said once he'd swallowed. "I got involved when one of their erstwhile clients had a crisis of conscience and turned himself in to the authorities, British not Thai. I was in the area and got asked to have a look-see on the QT. Talked to a few of the forgers that they'd managed to hire on a dreamers, I told you I knew a few people in the trade, anyway it turned out that one of them had baulked when it came to actually playing little orphan Annie-Li to that evening's Daddy Warbucks only to find that _daddy_ 's projections did the job for them when they failed to step up to the crease. Complete fluke."

"Come on, Eames," Arthur berated him. "That's almost as bad as the urban myth claiming multilevel dreaming was invented in a fetish club in Amsterdam by people with a sleep sex kink."

"Soho."

"Unimportant." Arthur leaned towards him to make his point. And incidentally collect the bottle for a refill. "The point being that poppy-chaining fetishists didn't create the first multilevel dreams and I don't believe for a second that your little trick was invented by a prostitute with a heart of gold who had second thoughts about dropping a few years for a john."

Eames made a tutting noise. "It was such a good story," he complained. "And it did involve an accident and a Thai brothel."

Arthur finished his glass and poured himself another, watching Eames suspiciously. "You don't actually know, do you?"

"Honestly, Arthur." Eames spread his hands wide with Gallic eloquence. "Job in Thailand went a bit tits-up when it turned out the mark had a thing for group sex. I bowed out expecting that to be the end of it but the mark and his projections all just kept going without me. Did a little experimentation and you saw the result."

That sounded closer to the truth although Arthur doubted it was the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He let himself think about that.

"So it was you that broke into the safe."

Eames didn't pretend not to know what he was talking about. "Sorry about that." Eames didn't looked guilty because he never looked guilty, but the apology was something. "Would it be too much to ask that you keep that information to yourself?" he said hopefully.

It wasn't the double-dealing or the thievery that annoyed Arthur the most, although it was them as well. "I gave you an alibi."

Eames winced.

"I did mean to thank you, only that would have meant incriminating myself when you'd so brilliantly un-incriminated me." Whatever he saw in Arthur's face made him hurry on. "Unplanned, I assure you."

It was some solace that there was no way Eames could have deliberately set Arthur up. Arthur remembered the surprise in Eames's expression when Arthur had confirmed his location - at the time he had thought it was surprise that Arthur had stood up for him at all and had taken the slight, if not to heart, then at least as a black mark against the forger.

"You owe me," he warned.

Eames beamed. "You have my eternal gratitude."

What Arthur had was Eames by the balls - which was rather appropriate, considering. For all his faults, Eames was a useful man to know.

"You realise that you'll never be able to pull that trick on me again. Use me as a witness for you," Arthur added, "in case that wasn't clear."

"Of course." Eames waved the suggestion away, although whether it was his use of the trick or the clarity of Arthur's statement he was referring to Arthur wasn't sure. Standing up, Eames brushed his hands off decisively, scattering crumbs for the birds, and leant against the metal railing that separated them from a five storey drop. "I'm getting a little old for the seduction game."

Arthur blinked, taken aback. "I though age was in the mind? Especially your age and your mind."

It wasn't like Eames had to work these days, any more than Arthur did. They'd both long since passed the point of doing it for the money - even before a certain Japanese gentleman's sizeable donation to their respective retirement funds.

"Let me re-phrase," Eames said carefully. "The seduction game is getting a little old." He sounded as weary of the entire thing as Arthur felt which went some way to consoling him but he couldn't help but wonder if 'old' in this context meant 'boring'. Arthur occasionally thought that Eames's entire life was based around trying to balance his equally strong aversions to boredom and mortal danger. "On the subject of which," Eames looked over at Arthur with a slightly pained smile, "if we're done, would you excuse me I've some business to take care off topside."

He had to... Because of... Oh!

"Eames..." Arthur said slowly.

There was no artifice in Eames's face, but his expression was shuttered nevertheless. "Yes."

"I apologise." Arthur stood as well, facing Eames across the length of the balcony. "You're not completely immoral."

Eames gaped at him, scrabbling for a response. Whatever he had expected from Arthur it hadn't been that.

"Why, Arthur," Eames was patently trying for sarcastic but there was too much rawness in his voice to make it work. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

The sad thing was, Arthur thought, that was probably true. Then he shot him. He waited, sipping his wine and he watched the gargoyles chase pidgins across the cathedral roofs. He'd give Eames a chance to leave the room before he woke up. They'd both had more than enough truth for one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs playing in hotel ballroom were:
> 
> 'I Can't Help Falling I Love With You' - Elvis (Viennese Waltz)
> 
> 'Break Away' - Kelly Clarkson (Viennese Waltz)
> 
> 'Winter Waltz' - Cirque Du Soleil (Slow Waltz)
> 
> 'Illusion' - Nat King Cole (Slow Waltz)


	15. Chapter 15

> _And lose, and start again at your beginnings,  
>  And never breathe a word about your loss..._

~~~~

"There!" Eames gasped. Behind them they could hear the overlapping slap of feet on cobbles, too many to make out individual footfalls. Externally the townhouse was typically Florentine; internally the design was typically dreamshare. They slammed the front door shut behind them, locked and bolted it (top and bottom).

"Go," Arthur said. "I'll keep them busy down here."

"I didn't see any weapons," Nicholas noted. "'Though I didn't have much time to check."

Arthur nodded, cocking his pistol and covering the still silent door. "We're going to have to do something about that," he said with a wry grimace.

"Better shot then beaten to death," Eames opined. "All the more incentive for us to teach them to shoot straight."

He slapped Nicholas's upper arm lightly and the pair of them took off into the labyrinthine interior.

~~~~

"Damn it, Eames, Cthulhu? I think I just trod on one of his fucking tentacles! Run!"

~~~~

The projection of Brocklehurst was close to Mark, correcting his stance, when they walked into the range. It gave them a flat look and then stepped away, hand lingering reassuringly on Mark's shoulder for a moment.

"Captain," Eames greeted him, saluting and getting a salute in return, "the new recruits are ready for training."

The projection nodded, walked away to the side of the range and continued to watch them with unwavering focus. All in all, Eames decided, it was a little disconcerting.

"Everything in place?" he asked Arthur quietly.

"Everything except the projections," Arthur agreed.

"Right then." Eames drew himself up and bellowed, "Recruit! Why are the other members of your company not with you?"

Mark visibly jumped and stared at them, speechless and visibly confused.

"Sergeant," Eames ordered, "let's get those men out here on the double."

"Yes, Staff," Arthur snapped smartly and turned away from the range towards the nearest bunch of milling projections. They were all dressed in OGs which was a good start. "You heard the Staff Sergeant, you maggots. Take your places. On the double!"

The horde swarmed forward and both Arthur and Eames stepped closer to Mark in case there was any trouble. The projections did as they were told, lining up beside Mark at the firing points.

"I'm not..." Mark began, plucking at his uniform shirt, "I'm sure I'm not..."

"Just go with it," Arthur advised. "It seems to be working."

"Can you believe Brock decided to sit this one out?" Eames chortled. He stepped away from them to his own position. Efficiently checking the breech, he hefted an assault rifle with practiced ease and addressed the assembled projections. "This, gentlemen," he thundered, "is an Avtomat Kalashnikova or AK-47. Also known as an 'A.K', or a 'Kalash' by our Russian friends. It is a gas-operated, 7.62x39mm assault rifle. It has both semi and full automatic modes and you will be using both - but what you will not be doing is switching it to full-auto until I give the order." He put the gun down and picked up the one next to it. "This is an SA-80, also known as a 'piece of shit'. One of these has saved my life on many occasions so just remember not to get any mud on them or drop them in a puddle and it'll be fine. You might not be able to keep yourselves clean without your mothers to help you wash behind your ears, but you will learn how to keep your gun clean. Next..."

~~~~

"What the hell am I wearing Eames? Are we in an Airship? We're having a dogfight in an airship? Why am I wearing a morning suit and a cravat!"

~~~~

"Have you ever felt an overwhelming need to drink blood, Brock?"

Brocklehurst stopped where he had been sneaking forwards and looked at Eames. "Pardon?"

"You don't appear to have a reflection," Eames nodded to the obsidian lake that lay beside the path, moon shining out from the dark depths to be mirrored in the sky. A distorted Eames nodded back at him from his watery home.

"Angle must be wrong," Brocklehurst suggested. A rumble from the distance drove them onwards.

"Good news," Eames wheezed, "I'm pretty sure that was heavy weaponry."

"Why is that good news?"

"Firstly - it means they're armed. Secondly - it means they're shooting at Arthur rather than us."

Brocklehurst laughed as they ran. "Good point," he agreed.

~~~~

"Giant robots? Really?"

~~~~

The paint on the walls was institutional slate-blue rather than institutional sage-green and the chairs were comfortable loungers. Outside the rumble of traffic had become a hum as hover-cars buzzed along. But the room was clearly their room and Mark looked around it with bemused doubt.

"Do you remember what we're doing?" Brocklehurst asked.

"Yes," Mark said slowly, growing in confidence as he spoke. "Permission finally came through for you to take me down more than one level. A dream within a dream."

Arthur slid the PASIV onto the table and Mark frowned - although that could have been due to the case being black with tiny, misbegotten stars and 'Dept. Dream Training' engraved in matching silver across the lid. Personally, Eames rather liked it (interesting without being too garish).

"Never go under in a dream on spec," Arthur lectured as Mark settled himself in one of the chairs. "The more layers down, the deeper into your unconscious mind you go. Go too deep and you might not be able to get back out again."

Brocklehurst nodded, crouching down to Mark's level. "No one goes down more than one level without planning it first. If you find yourself in a dream and someone suggests you go down another level then only do it if it's been previously discussed in reality first - if the person asking is legitimate then there's no reason not to wake up and make sure you have your bearings before you take that step."

"Assuming you know you're in a dream," Mark pointed out.

"Which is why you pay attention," Arthur agreed. "Some extractors use this technique as a safeguard; the target thinks they've woken up and relax; in fact the extraction is still going on. But it comes with risks - the lower levels also get increasingly unstable. Holding the second level's possible but it's difficult and there is a higher chance that the extraction team has made things easier for themselves by adding a little sedative to the mix. Anything beyond the second level requires dangerous levels of sedatives just to keep the dreams stable enough to be useful for anything."

"Basically - don't ever go to sleep." Eames added. "And if you really have to, then only do it if you're somewhere where only people you trust can get to you. And don't trust anyone."

Mark laughed.

"Especially not Eames," Arthur said, with an unfavourable look.

When everyone except Eames was ready to go, Eames pushed the button. The earthquake was unexpected. Somehow, after that, the flood of projections wanting an immediate and violent word with him wasn't.

Some of them were armed, which he chose to take as a positive.

~~~~

"What the buggering bollocks, Arthur? It's like Escher dropped acid in here!"

~~~~

The salle was light and airy; the impression magnified by the pale pine of the sprung floors, pale walls and high ceiling. The great glass doors of the outside wall had been opened up and the clash of blade against blade from the adjoining terrace attested to the number of trainees who'd taken advantage of the good weather to move their practice al fresco.

The master of the salle had a familiar face only marred by a set of scars on either cheek. Arthur exchanged a glance with Eames. The last thing they needed was a rogue projection that could forge. Eames shrugged in response but the twist of his mouth wasn't happy.

"Sir," Eames greeted the projection formally. "Your new instructors."

The Master gave them a measuring look which suggested that they had been judged and found wanting. "Your specialities," he demanded.

"Sabre and sword-and-dagger," Eames said quickly. "My colleague favours rapier and small sword. We are both passable knife fighters."

"Passable?" Derision laced the word.

"More than passable," Eames corrected with a smirk.

An unamused 'humph' wiped the smile from his face. "Your first pupils are over there," the Master conceded. "I will be watching."

Arthur didn't doubt him.

~~~~

"You're as bad as Eames! I refuse to be eaten by something from the Cretaceous period just because... Is Eames riding a Diplodocus? That's not even the right era!"

~~~~

The boat rocked precariously underneath them; flat-bottomed and wide, it wallowed ungainly in the swell. Eames chewed on a fat cigar stub and rode the motion with an easy roll.

"Gentlemen," he proclaimed, talking around the Churchill as if it was nothing. "The information we want is located at the top of the beach behind me." A shell screamed over his head and impacted in the sea far enough away that the ripple was lost in the waves. "This isn't the time for subtlety. This isn't the time for finesse. This is a no-holes barred, balls-to-the-wire race to the bunker. Get to it and we should be able to hold the projections off long enough to crack the safe. Any questions?"

Shells two and three impacted in much the same place, throwing geysers of water up into the air.

"Yeah," Nicholas said, "I've got one - why the hell did you give them a howitzer?"

His question was underlined by the increasing whine of oncoming ordnance.

"Don't worry." Eames waved the cigar stub over his head, following the path that the shells were taking. "I set them to fire well away from us. They're just for effect."

The next barrage splashed down a lot closer. The boat groaned and creaked as it was buffeted by the impact wave. Water rained down, soaking them to the skin and threatening to make the boat founder. The three of them came up spluttering and clinging to the side of the boat.

"Unless they work out how to change the aim," Arthur yelled over the growing noise. "Let's go before they figure out range-finding as well."

He had a nasty feeling it might be too late. Nicholas gunned the engine and they surged forward. The water, churned up by the ballistics, jerked them around with teeth-rattling force, too unsettled to allow them the respite of hydroplaning. From the beach a tower of fire, sand and smoke leapt into the air with a retort so sharp that it was clearly audible to those in the boat.

"Tell me that wasn't a projection getting blown up by a mine," Arthur shouted.

"I had to slow them down somehow," Eames shouted back. "Just stick to the main routes and you'll be fine."

"Routes?" Nicholas called.

Eames looked back at him from the front of the boat. "Did I not mention the wire?"

Any response was lost in the scramble as a shell hit too close and they could either go down with the boat or strike out for the shore under their own steam. The water was chest-high and bitterly cold. Machine guns above their heads, they made for the beach. Around them the water raged and the air screamed fury.

~~~~

"If I see even one white picket fence I am kicking myself out of this dream! I refuse to get battered to death by a 50s housewife stereotype with a rolling-pin."

~~~~

The squadron mess didn't quite live up to its name but it had definitely seen better days.

"The information we've been tasked to intercept is being couriered over the lines," Captain Nicholas Brocklehurst, 'Brockles' to his friends, told them seriously.

"Over?" Arthur asked.

Brockles looked out of the window to where their planes waited for them on the tarmac and Arthur followed his gaze. The canvas of the wings and fuselage was brightly painted giving them an oversized, airfix-model look.

"Over," Brockles confirmed.

"Just to break the mood for a minute," Eames interrupted. "But where is everyone? Those things are a lot easier to get off the ground if you have someone else swing the prop for you."

"The trenches," Nicholas said. "Should slow them down for long enough that we can get in the air. Don't worry - I took a few liberties with the starter."

"You couldn't have given us a tail wheel as well?" Eames complained.

A warning siren cut through their conversation.

"That's the signal," Nicholas said over the noise. "Time to go."

He and Eames sprinted for the door, Arthur trailing, unconvinced, behind them.

"Come on, Dastardly," Eames called back over his shoulder, "we've got to catch that pigeon." He snickered.

~~~~

"Arthur - I can't help but notice that we appear to be dressed up like the fugitives from Treasure Island. And the projections are all wearing rather a lot of black."

~~~~

"Tell me there are tree houses," Eames said happily as he looked around at the tall forest.

Arthur ignored him.

"Is it me," Eames said slowly five minutes later, "or is there something odd about this wood?"

"You mean beyond the fact that we haven't seen any projections yet? Or found Nicholas?"

"Beyond that, yes. More to do with the way that the path that was behind us doesn't seem to be there any more."

Arthur whirled around, bringing his gun to bear but there was nothing but trees. Which was a problem because there hadn't been trees there a minute ago.

A low rumbling, 'hoom-hom,' reverberated through the air.

Eames eye went wide. "Oh shit," he whispered. Then louder, "Run!"

A shadow fell over them and Arthur just had time to wonder what the hell was going on when the world went black and filled with pain and then was gone.

~~~~

A good session, Arthur thought ruefully as he took the line from his arm. He took a shallow breath. It was psychosomatic but it would take a little while before he could breathe entirely normally, his body anticipating a pain that did not exist in the real world. The brain really was an amazing thing, but when it tricked the body into feeling the memory of musket balls ripping through his chest he couldn't help but wish for an upgrade - or a downgrade.

Arthur, at least, had the satisfaction of outlasting Eames, even if only briefly. Eames was holding himself a little stiffly as he sat up and disentangled himself, his left arm held tight to his side as he favoured it. But then impalement was an unpleasant way to go. Mark's projections were learning quickly and appeared to have got over their originator's qualms about violence.

Eames looked across at him and Arthur nodded.

"Nicholas," Arthur said. He'd been the first one taken out and so had taken up the timing duties.

"Under three minutes. With you out he'll be waking up soon."

"That's good," Arthur acknowledged.

Nicholas looked at him intently. "But is it good enough?"

Eames stretched as he stood up, working some of the kinks of the dream out of his system.

"Only one way to find out," he said. "Any objections - speak now before he wakes up."

No one did.

"Then we tell him," Eames concluded. "And that's time up."

Mark blinked muddily awake and Nicholas walked over to his chair, ready to assist if necessary but otherwise letting Mark remove his own line.

"That time again," Mark joked, passing him the cannula to be sterilised and packed away before turning to Arthur. "Was it a castle this time?"

"Close," Arthur allowed.

Mark thought about it. "Ah," he breathed, "a stately home." His eyes narrowed as he concentrated. "Or a French château... There were definitely formal gardens. And a maze?"

Eames muttered something rude under his breath.

"Yes," Arthur agreed suppressing his amusement at Eames's dismay. The maze had been unpleasant and, as it had turned out, more so for Eames than himself. "There was definitely a maze. And this round is on Nicholas."

"Kettle is on," Nicholas told him, finishing with the PASIV and locking the case shut. "As it always is."

"You could try not dying as quickly," Eames suggested. "Then it would be someone else's turn to make the tea."

"Not everyone here has had the same amount of practice," Nicholas pointed out.

"Which is why," Eames agreed, unrepentant, "we are only playing for a round of government issue tea-slash-coffee and not for pints down the pub later."

The click of the kettle and the cessation of boiling sounds from across the corridor put a stop to the conversation.

"Y'know," Eames mused as Nicholas stepped out to make the drink, "I think I just worked out why I thought I could hear thunder."

Drinks in hand, they gathered around the table they'd taken to using for their post-session critiques.

"Before we do go over the details," Arthur said as they sat down, "there is something we'd like to talk to you about."

Mark looked at them, expectant and maybe a little wary.

"We'd like to kidnap you," Eames said bluntly. He plopped down in his seat with the same grace and tact with which he'd dropped the suggestion into the conversation.

"Pardon?" Mark said, calmly polite in a way that spoke of his many years of receiving unreasonable demands when a reaction construed as an insult could wreck a negotiation. Whereas Arthur had just had to deal with Dom in his more flyaway moods which was almost as bad. Why everyone had thought he rather than Arthur was the 'people person' Arthur honestly didn't know. Although he put it down to the general stupidity of the majority of people of their acquaintance - present company excepted, of course. Most of 'present company'. The rest of 'present company' would be hearing from him later about the importance of delicacy and timing. At length.

"Think of it as the final exam," Arthur explained quickly. "You've been doing well but you know this is training - your mind's primed to expect both the dream state and the incursion. We need to remove that warning."

Mark was silent as he thought through what had been said. "So what happens?" he asked at last.

"These sessions will be put on hold and some time in the next..." Arthur looked at Eames and Nicholas. Nicholas had promised a chemist and an architect but they'd need time to organise, plan, practice. "...few weeks we'll attempt to extract a vital piece of information from you." Nicholas gave him a small nod, apparently having done the same mental calculations. "It will be a full-on, no-holds-barred extraction."

"The information?" Mark's voice was too controlled to be real. It was a tone Arthur knew well from his own use.

Eames didn't seem inclined to join in the conversation. Typical; having caused maximum disruption he now sat back to watch it play out. Arthur didn't need to see the gleam of his eyes over his tea mug to know that he was watching Mark closely, cataloguing every reaction. Arthur looked pointedly at Nicholas.

"A code phrase," Nicholas answered and Arthur would have bet money that Mark relaxed a little at those words. Not surprising given the little extraction trick Nicholas and Eames had played on him. "Unknown to any of us," Nicholas stressed as he elaborated. "You'll be given it to memorise during your normal briefing in the next few days."

Mark's direct gaze didn't leave Nicholas. "I take it that this exercise has been given the go ahead by 'health and safety'."

"I'll be working with them on the extraction team," Nicholas confirmed.

Mark's mouth drew into a tight smile. "I'm not sure if I find that reassuring or alarming."

Nicholas dropped his eyes modestly and Arthur was strongly tempted to point out that 'both' was a viable option. He really hated the feeling that he was missing out on part of the conversation.

"As this'll be our last session for a while, let's make the most of it," he said instead. He got a round of nods from everyone at the table and Eames slurping his tea with deliberate offensiveness in response. "Let's start," Arthur suggested, "with what you can remember about the maze..."


	16. Chapter 16

> _If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew  
>  To serve your turn long after they are gone..._

~~~~

#### Prelude of an Extraction in Nine Simple Parts...

##### The Location

The rain had decided to take a break but the memory of it remained in the air, enveloping everyone in the sweaty warmth of an over familiar hug. The preparation was taking place in a draughty warehouse (1:2 - tradition, 1:4 - security, 1:4 - space for architect) of which special branch had many (unofficially). Eames left Arthur and Nicholas setting up (arguing about the best use of the semi-permanent rooms that made up an office area at one end of the building) and gone in search of snack food, tea (Nicholas and himself), coffee (Arthur) and milk (all of them) because he didn't want to adjudicate and it had seemed the least effort of the available jobs. Although whoever had used the building last had, at least, tidied up after themselves. Suspiciously well in Eames opinion, not that he was passing judgement.

##### The Architect

Eames heard their visitor before he got a visual; the scuffle of boots against uneven, industrial paving, the grumble of under-the-breath commentary. Moving the all the Tesco's bags into his left hand, Eames slipped his knife from it's sheath and crept forward quietly. Rounding the corner of the warehouse, he got his first clear view of their interloper (30s, female, Pakistani extraction, sturdily built, hair in a short, neat pixie cut, army boots and cargo pants with bulging pockets, heavy black donkey jacket) and put the knife away.

"Hey," he called out, "Shiv, way in's round the corner."

She grinned at him, "Well, well, Captain Jack." They gripped arms and reeled each other in for a mutual, if one armed, hug. "So this is your show is it? Or are you just providing the tea and scones?"

"So they tell me," he said waiting a beat before adding, "apparently I get the best scones," as he lead her around to the front door. He tapped out a haircut-and-two-bits on the door for no reason than showmanship and ushered her in. "Welcome to my humble warehouse. The facilities are basic but the decor more than makes up for it."

He really hadn't meant anything by that, except maybe a dig at the grey-on-greyness of it all, it was unfortunate that Arthur chose that moment to walk out of the warehouse office.

Shiv looked Arthur up and down as he walked towards them and raised an eyebrow. "You really aren't doing anything to lose the nickname, are you?" she muttered to Eames.

"Watch it, Ace," his smile didn't slip as Arthur eyed them both cautiously, "I've got as much on you as you have on me."

"So you keep telling me." She turned to Arthur and held out her hand. "Shevanthi," she offered. "So how do you know this arsehole?"

Arthur's frown of confusion was glorious. Eames went to help Brocklehurst before any explanations could be demanded from him.

#####  ~~The Plan~~

"Everyone else gone?" Brocklehurst asked as Eames slipped into the office area. He shut the door behind him.

"If by 'everyone' you mean Shiv," Eames plumped down in the remaining seat, "then yes - I just saw her off. Do we need to get more seating in here?"

"We can bring it in if needed", Arthur tapped his pencil against his notebook. "Can we get on."

"Keeping you from an important engagement?" Eames inquired solicitously. To his unending amusement Arthur had developed an addiction to the seven o'clock vintage comedy hour on BBC Radio 4 Extra. The amusement was less due to Arthur's like of the old shows than his complete denial over it. If he'd just admit his fondness (complete obsession) then Eames would've stopped bothering him about it.

Arthur glowered at him. "It's been a long day," he said (lie).

"Gentleman," Brocklehurst brought them back to business. "I know this is irregular but since there are some details we can't share with the rest of the team we have a lot of planning to do."

"If it wasn't for the militarisation we could go simple," Eames noted, "office-setting, have someone ask him if he has put the phrase in a safe place."

"And if that wasn't the point of this exercise then we could just ask him." Arthur cut him down. "Let's keep the hypotheticals to the minimum shall we."

"Hypo-thet-icals," Eames mouthed because he couldn't resist tweaking Arthur just that little bit more.

"Yes, Eames," Arthur said icily, "hypotheticals. As in the pointless speculation about what we'd do if we hadn't just spent the last few months training Mark's mind to chew us up and spit us back out again."

"Thank you Arthur, I had completely forgotten about that. Why don't you give us your suggestion then?"

Brocklehurst stared at the pair of them with complete bemusement. He'd get used to it.

##### The Chemist

Eames checked his watch, bored. The chemist was late. He wasn't actually late as he wasn't due for another half-hour, but Eames was willing to put money on him being late. He said as much to Shiv who was unimpressed by his reasoning that 'there was always one' and the rest of them were organised. Their friendly squabble nicely killed a few minutes. Arthur came out of the office area and they halted, two prize fighters who'd heard the bell and were forced to wait for the next round. Oblivious to their scrutiny Arthur tucked his phone away in his inside pocket. He was frowning, the furrows across his brow are so deep that, for an insane second, Eames thought he could have used one of them instead. He wasn't crass enough to say so aloud when Arthur looked like that. Despite what some people might believe he did have limits (even if he occasionally ignored them). Arthur sat down at his desk, shuffling papers that Eames didn't believe could possibly have anything useful on when they hadn't even started. Shiv took one look at both of them and declared she was going for a walk.

"Was that the chemist?" Eames asked because he was sure that it must have been the chemist begging off.

Arthur looked at him, confusion layering on whatever concerned him, and blinked, shaking it off. "No," he said, clipped, and turned back to his paper-husbanding. Arthur was one of the few people that Eames knew who could somehow rub paper together and make it breed.

It probably wasn't any of his business - Arthur had a lot of life that Eames had no business being in (according the Arthur) - and Arthur would tell him to butt out in no uncertain terms. That didn't stop him asking, "Problem?"

"Kaj," Arthur tossed the explanation out carelessly, "wanting to assure me that there are no hard feelings on his end if there weren't at mine."

There could only be one reason the Kai would make that phone call. At least, only one reason that Arthur would share with him.

"I take it Ariadne's gotten her inquisitive little fingers burned?" At Arthur's impatient nod Eames asked, "Bad?"

"Henry."

Eames shivered despite himself. "Could've been worse then," he said, pumping the words with all the lightness he could to drive away the memory of the dark.

Arthur regarded him over a half-squared file-folder. "You reasoning being?" The question had a definite apprehensive resonance.

"People survive Henry." Eames elaborated. "Especially these days. Not like when we were young and foolish. Assuming you were ever," Arthur gave him a quelling 'is not the time' look but it was unnecessary, "foolish," he finished.

Arthur thought about that but didn't disagree. "Kai said Gitte realised and pulled her out pretty quickly," he said instead, finishing squaring the paper in the folder. "They've made her comfortable for now."

Which was all very well, if ominous. "You need to take some time off?"

The logistics of doing the job with a two-man extraction team would be difficult but not impossible. Or not any more impossible. And Arthur had seemed to have a soft spot for Ariadne when they'd been working together. Arthur didn't look up from his carefully sorted documents.

"It's fine," he dismissed the offer. "It isn't as if I can add anything that they aren't already providing."

Eames sauntered closer.

"Just thought you might want to do something."

"I'll make a note to send her a fruit basket."

As far as Eames could tell he did just that.

"She's awake then?" Eames pushed.

"Not yet but they're hopeful..."

What they were hopeful about had to wait as the door opened. Eames looked up, expecting Shiv only to find Brocklehurst standing there instead.

"Jason called, the chemist," Brocklehurst said as headed over to them, "problems on the DLR so he's stuck on a bus somewhere and he might be late." He caught the atmosphere and looked between them "Something wrong?"

#####  ~~The Plan # 2~~

"What's the standard M.O. when the target is militarised," Brocklehurst asked.

Eames and Arthur shared a look. It wasn't as if they weren't already in for a pound.

"Two layers," Eames said. "You try and do the extraction in one - whatever you would do anyway - but you build in the second as back up."

Brocklehurst's mouth tightened.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Arthur got in a split second before Eames could.

"I'll check," Brocklehurst assured them.

Eames mentally scrapped his first three ideas.

##### The Target

"The target is male," Eames listed, "late 40s, married with a child, no known mistress, well connected. He's come into the possession of a particular item of information that our client wants. We've been tasked to discover it." They'd agreed to keep Mark's name out of it (Brocklehurst had told them they had to) but they were running the scenario as if it was a real job and that meant briefings. "We've reason to believe that he's militarised."

"So we'll need a second layer?" Shiv said, making a note on her pad.

Brocklehurst shook his head. "Too risky."

"Surely if he's militarised..." Shiv looked over at Eames, appealing to him for final judgement.

Eames glanced at Brocklehurst. It wasn't like they hadn't been expecting this. "One layer only, he confirmed.

"Any other restrictions we should know about?" Arthur enquired in dry tones.

Brocklehurst didn't bother with the pretence of checking his notes. "He can't be grabbed near his son or in any area his son frequents."

Eames wondered if that order came from above or was Brocklehurst's own addition. Not that it mattered. "So," he said, "bearing all that in mind, ideas?"

#####  ~~The Plan # 3~~

"So we're agreed that an plain office scenario is too risky?" Arthur tipped forward on his chair, bringing it down onto all four legs with a small thump.

"After last time," Brocklehurst agreed. "This time we need something a bit more subtle."

"We'll need offices nearby," Eames noted. "The phrase was given to him at work and he's pathologically desperate to keep his family out of anything related to extraction. He's not going to manifest the phrase in anything outside a work setting."

"Urban area," Arthur summarised, "government offices and nearby area that the mark can be occupied in. Hotel? Park? Eatery?"

Eames thought about that. "Hotel should do. Familiar enough, gives us space and complexity to play in and be as official or intimate as we want to make it."

"Intimate?" Arthur queried but his tone didn't hold the same don't-want-to-know tightness that it had always had before when the indelicate subject of Eames's distraction ploys came up.

"Friendly," Eames shrugged the difference away. "I'm not suggesting I go in as his wife if that's what you're hinting towards. As Brock said - we're going to need something a bit more subtle."

"Ignoring that for the moment," Brocklehurst interrupted. "Let's stick to the things we agree on - are we all happy with what we need to tell Shiv to start building?"

##### The Extractor

"I've got a question," Shiv said. At Eames distraction she reached out and grabbed the rubber he had flinched from her desk and had been casually playing with. "Who has the final say, both up here and in the dream? I thought this was your gig but Nick's setting the ground rules. Do I take my designs to you, to him, to Arthur? The extractor normally makes the call but that could be any of you at this point."

Eames cleared his throat. "Good point," he admitted. "I'll be right back."

"Don't feel the need to hurry," she called after him.

They'd been working together long enough that all Eames needed to do was catch Arthur's eye and incline his head towards the offices.

Brocklehurst was more deeply embroiled in his own work, not noticing Eames's approach until he said "Brock, have a moment?"

Brocklehurst checked what he was doing before answering. "Sure," he agreed.

He swiped a high-lighter over an apparently significant half-sentence, added a bookmark and put everything away tidily in a draw. Eames assumed that the lock was more for show than from any expectation of security. With the exception of chemist (bleach-blond hair, metrosexual/clubber, probably straight, white - from a little village somewhere he left as fast as possible in favour of Newcastle), anyone of them could have had the picked it in under a minute (although Shiv would be more likely to blow it than pick it, but that was sappers for you).

They convened in the office, empty except for the garden chairs and PASIV stand.

"What's up?" Brocklehurst asked as soon as Eames closed the door behind them

"Pecking order. Shiv wants to know who signs off on her designs."

Arthur started to answer and then stopped short.

"Exactly," Eames said. "We traded off when it was just us, but now we've brought the others in we really need to make it clear to everyone who's responsible for what."

"It's your job," Brocklehurst pointed out. "What do you suggest?"

Eames looked between them, weighing the odds. He stopped on Brocklehurst.

"Normally I'd let you two fight it out for who takes point but I'm willing to step back if you would be willing to take lead. Arthur can fall on his OCD and take point and I'll do what I do best."

"You've headed up teams before," Brocklehurst spoke as fact. At some point Eames really was going to have to find out exactly how much information had been filed on him (too much) and see about reducing it (preferably to none) "Why not this one?"

Eames looked at Arthur who looked impassively back. "Experience has shown that mine and Arthur's styles don't always play well together." He smirked in Arthur's direction just to see if he would bristle. Disappointingly he didn't. "Best to keep the squabbling out of the chain of command and in the warehouse where it belongs. And any mandated parameters are going to come through you, we might as well cut out the middle man."

"And," Brocklehurst pressed, "now the answer you're going to give Arthur when he asks you later?"

That was a sure sign they had all been working together for too long.

"You know Mark." It was an explanation in itself. "We want to get something out of his head you're our best chance of doing it."

Brocklehurst thought about that and nodded. "Arthur?" he asked.

"It gives us the best chance," Arthur agreed.

Eames smiled widely. "If you two want to coordinate where we are, I'll go and give Shiv the good news."

#####  ~~The Plan # 4~~

"As the person who repeatedly got his arse handed to him - I guess I get to be the person who brings this up..." Eames started.

Brocklehurst raised a hand to stop him. "I have a plan to deal with the projection."

"Are you going to let us in on it?" Arthur inquired.

Brocklehurst shook his head. "Works better if I don't."

"I don't like people holding out on me," Arthur said, chill anger giving his words the snap of a winter's morning. "Especially not team mates."

"It's for your own safety," Brocklehurst explained and Eames mentally winced. That was definitely in red-rag-to-a-bull territory where Arthur was concerned.

"Listen," Arthur was on his feet and leaning across the small table with threatening intensity.

"Hey," Eames said, amiability itself as he caught Arthur's arm. "It occurs to me that if we could take the projection out then we could swap the real Brock in easily enough. Then he could easily feed Mark his cues and Mark would be none the wiser."

That had the desired effect - the room fell silent as they all contemplated that idea.

"It could work," Arthur admitted, "if," he stressed the word with a hard look at Brocklehurst, "we can take the rogue out in a way that doesn't make Mark suspicious or set off his projections."

"Not if I'm extracting," Brocklehurst said heavily. "I can't prompt Mark and go after the phrase."

Eames shrugged. "We could swap tasks," he pointed out. "I can crack the safe as easily as you can. Possibly easier if some projection dodging is necessary."

"Let's keep that in reserve," Brocklehurst demurred. "What other possibilities are there?"

If Eames didn't know any better he might have thought that Brocklehurst didn't trust him. He did know better so he knew Brocklehurst didn't trust him. But then that went both ways. He'd work something out with Arthur later. Until then they had other things to decide.

##### The Pointman

"So Jase is doing a favour for his prof," Eames said, leaning back in his seat, tea in one hand and Jaffa Cake in the other. "Brock's on work experience, Arthur was bored, and I lost a bet. How did you end up on this gig?"

The lucid dreamer's version of two truths and a lie. Shiv gave him a suspicious once-over but said simply enough, "Volunteered."

Everyone winced, more or less theatrically.

She raised two fingers at them. "I wanted a change from creating combat and interrogation training scenarios. Be nice to do something different. And there's always the chance that you'll strike lucky and get the find out the details of the next Dr Who special or something. You never know what you are going to get on these training exercises."

"You know the orders," Brocklehurst reminded her severely, "writers are off limits, and that goes double for Moffet and Rowling. The stories are true."

"It's still better than yet another near-identical sand-dunes-with-village," Shiv grumbled, not at all put off.

Eames laughed. "You're just pissed because you don't get to blow them up."

Demolition experts knew nearly as much about buildings and how they stayed up, or didn't, as architects and HRH had a lot more of the former to call on when she needed them, or they were needed on her behalf, which Eames appreciated. Most of the time. Their last job together had been memorable. And explosive (dusty atmosphere = heap, big bang, who knew!).

"For the last time," Shiv balled up the paper and foil of her KitKat and threw it at his head. He fumbled the catch but did manage to bat it away so didn't look completely incompetent. "I am not," she insisted, "a bloody pyromaniac!"

Eames's expression was the epitome of scepticism (he'd done studies). "Do you know how long it took my eyebrows to grow back?"

And the hair on the right side of his body. And some of the skin. Thankfully he'd been bundled up or it would have been a lot worse.

Shiv finished the last piece of her snack in three swift, precise bites. "Firstly," she said when she'd swallowed, "the only time anyone cares how you look is in a dream and you're a forger so you can do what you like with your eyebrows." She brushed the crumbs of her fingers. "Secondly - no, I don't," she smiled, "but we could try it again and I promise to pay more attention this time."

"No chance," Eames said quickly. He glared at her, indignant. "And I'll have you know there are plenty of people who care about my looks."

"But then you wake up," Shiv said sweetly, "and they all go away."

That got a round of laughter, even Jase whose main emotions oscillated between bored, indifferent and distracted joined in the fun. Arthur politely hid his grin behind his hand but couldn't stop the light that danced in his eyes at Eames's expense. Brocklehurst's phone rang, breaking up the party. Jase, who'd been drinking Red Bull anyway, wandered off to tend to his chemicals leaving Eames, Arthur and Shiv to finish their drinks.

Shiv waited until Brocklehurst was definitely immersed in his conversation and leaned towards Eames. "Not all writers are on the proscribed list. Since you're in town, how'd you feel about an off-the-record dip into a tabbie hack?"

Eames mirrored her pose, bringing their heads close together. "What's the payout?"

"Pro-bono - but a good chance of getting something tasty that we can leak to Leveson."

Eames raised his eyebrows. It could be interesting. Even without the financial incentive. And they had everything they needed set up here to slip in a 'practice run'. Every job was practice after all. "Narrow it down for me," he instructed.

"Daily Fail," Shiv's tone was clipped.

That was all Eames needed to know. "You have my number."

"Eames?" Arthur said sharply. "If you're ready to go through the notes?"

"Two seconds." Eames down the last dregs of his tea and winked at Shiv. "Admit it, you just want me for me looks," he challenged.

Shiv rolled her eyes. "Well it sure isn't for your sparkling personality."

"Eames," Arthur hissed. It was being ignored that did it, Eames decided, for someone who spent much of his life working in the background, Arthur got very snippy when he didn't get the attention that he wanted. Eames turned to face him as irreproachably as circumstances and his own talents allowed. Arthur glared at him, not at all appeased, not that Eames thought he would be. "Do you remember we had that discussion recently about how people didn't just break into other people's heads to get dirt."

"I remember when you said that and I didn't disagree with you out loud," Eames amended amiably. "Besides, this is in a good cause."

Arthur looked between Eames and Shiv, confusion knitting his brow into a striated pattern. "What've you got against this guy anyway?"

"I'm queer as a three-bob note and Shiv is a dirty foreigner," Eames said, "between us we cause cancer, lower house prices and are likely suspects in the death of Princess Di."

"What he said," Shevanthi agreed, "except my family's from Shropshire. At least for the last few generations. Although" Shiv lowered her voice, "there are rumours of a cousin in Wales."

Eames looked at her. "Shropshire, really? I had you down as Newport."

"Newport is in Shropshire." There was a silent 'idiot' strung on the end of that statement.

Eames shrugged. "Never very good at geography."

"Let me get this straight," Arthur said slowly, "you want to run a side job breaking into a reporter's mind on the off chance that you find something interesting that you can leak to the phone tapping inquiry - because you don't like the paper that this guy works for."

Shiv glanced at Eames who gave her a little nod. "Pretty much."

"It can't jeopardise what we're supposed to be doing," Arthur insisted. Which wasn't a no.

"You want in as well?" Eames offered. "We could use a point."

#####  ~~The Plan # 5~~

"Maybe we're going about this completely the wrong way," Arthur sighed.

Brocklehurst didn't look much happier but then they had been banging their heads against a wall for two weeks and still hadn't come up with a plan they were comfortable with. A combination of knowing too much, and Eames had never thought that would be a problem, and having their hands tied by Brocklehurst's bosses.

Brocklehurst dragged himself up and stood by the flip chart Arthur had brought in as an aid. So far it had mostly been used for hangman which Eames normally won (psychological profiling and a better grasp of transatlantic colloquialisums).

He turned to a blank sheet. "Right," he said, picking up the pen, "from the top."

"We have an urban setting," Arthur flicked through his notebook (habit rather than any real need to reference what he had written) "with the possibility of hotel, office or general urban setting."

"Filing cabinet in the office," Eames added. "The phrase should appear in there if we can get the prompt right."

"Obstacles," Arthur took over, "we know Mark is militarised, and on top of that we know he has a rogue projection that we need to deal with somehow."

"Resources," Eames said promptly, "we know about the aforementioned obstacles so we can plan for them. We have an extractor, one of the better pointman and the best forger in the business."

"Be serious, Eames," Brocklehurst chided.

Eames stretched out his arms, adjusting his cuffs before folding his arms again. "I was being completely serious," he assured them.

"If you could keep your ego in check until we actually have a solution?" Arthur snipped.

"How about this..." Eames began.

##### The Forger

"Am I imaging it - or is someone trying to break into the warehouse?" Arthur said incredulously.

Eames cocked his head, listening. Arthur was right - there were definitely weird noises coming from the locked back door of the building. Unless the rats in the area had got a lot bigger, and very quickly, then the scratching sounds were more likely caused by rodents of a human nature.

"Whoever it is must have seen Jase and the Nick leaving and got the wrong idea," Shiv suggested.

"You think they're after drugs?" Eames said.

Arthur stalked towards the door, expression flinty. "They're in for disappointment then, aren't they?"

"Hold up," Eames hurried after him and caught his arm. "I've got a better idea. You just stand there and look menacing." Arthur glared at him. "Exactly like that," Eames enthused. "Now..."

He ghosted to the door, very carefully unlocked it and then returned to his position.

"Offices," Arthur said quietly, catching onto the plan. "Don't want to rush things."

Eames nodded and they all tiptoed into the office area and waited.

It took a while.

"Not very bright are they," Shiv whispered.

"Doesn't take many brains to wield a crowbar," Eames whispered back.

"Yeah," Shiv muttered as the intruders continued failing to make headway on the unlocked door, "apparently it does."

There were a few louder sounds, clearly audible in the silence of the warehouse. The click of the latch was lost in the thud of the door as it swung open with a lot more energy than its forcer expected. Everyone froze as the echoes reverberated dully about the empty space.

"Finally," Arthur breathed.

The muffled rise and fall of a hissed argument drifted across to them.

"Oh goodie," Shiv said with malicious glee, "there's two of them."

"You wait ages for one thieving toe-rag and two come along at once," Eames agreed. "You think that they just realised the the door was unlocked."

Arthur shushed them with a look and Eames pulled a face back at him because Arthur was right.

The first kid (white/West Indian, not old enough to shave regularly) stumbled into the building, caring more about turning around to remonstrate with his shover than check whether he was alone. His companion (white, same age) came in, all swagger and cocksurety until his friend turned around and thumped him on the arm. They were still scuffling when Eames stepped out into the open, every inch of him projecting menace. He could sense the solid presence of Arthur and Shiv at his back, flanking him.

"Looking for something boys," Eames said, shifting his accent to East End underground.

Their two miscreants (gangsta-wannabes who didn't realise Ali G was satire, never be anything more than small time - whichever side of the tracks they ended up - unless they wised up fast) jumped, one of them letting out an undignified squawk that he would inevitably deny later.

"Yeah," the braver, or possibly stupider, of the two said. "We know you got gear. We want some."

The demand might have been more intimidating if it had come from someone who's voice didn't crack slightly as he spoke. The disarray of his clothing thanks to the tussle did nothing to help the impression he was giving and he could count himself lucky that he didn't have enough hair for that to have been mussed. As it was Eames was hard pressed not to laugh at the little idiot.

"Come back when your balls drop," Eames dismissed unkindly.

"Come on," the second boy said quietly, pulling at his mate's arm. There might be some hope for him, Eames decided, he at least recognised when they were over their heads. He got shaken off for his trouble.

"My balls dropped plenty breh," his stupider (definitely stupider) friend insisted angrily. "I'll show you I got fuckin' balls."

He stepped forward in a way that he clearly thought was intimidating. As someone who had dealt with war zones, militarised unconsciousnesses trying to rip him apart and Arthur on a tear, Eames wasn't buying what their not-so-artful dodger was trying to sell.

"Thanks but no thanks kid. Come back in five years when there's something to actually see. Until then I suggest you find another way to earn your pocket money."

"You callin' me a bum boy?" the boy spluttered, held back only by his friend who was, once more, hanging on his arm.

"Hey, you were offering, cupcake. If it was good enough for Ronnie who am I to judge?"

"Who the fuck is Ronnie?"

Eames turned to Arthur. "Kids these days," he complained, "no sense of history." He turned back. "And no sense of respect. What are you punks doing in my warehouse? And your answer better be good."

"We told you, old man," the mouthy one spat. "We're here to get some gear. You gotta problem with that?"

"Yeah, I gotta problem with that," Eames parroted. "Because, even if I was selling, paying customers come to the front door and don't try and sneak in the back."

"You want me to teach 'em some manners," Arthur asked, soft and deadly.

"You gonna get the girl to help you?" mouthy sneered.

The little brat really was too stupid to live. And if he kept going the way he was then Eames didn't hold out much hope of his reaching majority. Eames ignored him addressing his friend who stared back with the wide eyed supplication of one who knew a predator when they saw them and just wanted to get out alive.

"Why are you with this fuckwit?" Eames asked, ignoring the loud 'hey,' of objection from the aforementioned fuckwit. "You want to get out before he drags you into something you can't get out off."

"I..." the kid stammered. "We just..."

"Shut up," mouthy hissed. "You don't need to tell that perv anything."

"Listen up, fuckwit," Eames interrupted, "the only reason you are getting out of here with your kneecaps intact is because we don't mess up children. Now you might not have noticed, because you seem to be better at using your mouth than your brain, but the gentleman behind me with the American accent has always had a little bit of a problem understanding the differences in gun control laws between our two countries and I'll let you in on a little secret - he was trained up by the US military and, if they are good at one thing, it's shooting at us so I really wouldn't risk it. And my other associate - well she just likes the blow things up. And you, you'd burn real well when she was done with you." Both children blanched slightly and even mouthy took a step back. From the corner of his eyes Eames could see Shiv holding what looked like a grenade. He wasn't going to ask. "So, you see, you have a choice. You can apologise for the trespassing and disrespect that you've offered us and we'll think about letting you go with only a few bruises. Or you can keep trying to convince us that you are big men, and even if someone does care enough to come looking... they won't find the bodies. So which is it boys?"

"We're sorry," the words were out of the second kid's mouth so fast that Eames barely had time to see his lips move. "Aren't we Jaz. We didn't mean to dis you, yeah."

Jaz was trying hard to maintain his bravado but his insolence was melting away in the face of Arthur's implacably cold stare and Shiv's manic grin, grenade bouncing in her hand.

"Yeah," he mumbled reluctantly, "we didn't mean nothing. S'mistake."

"I'll tell you what," Eames offered magnanimously. "We'll give you a thirty second head start and then Billy starts shooting. But because you're small - he'll just aim for your legs. What do you..."

They were already running before he could finish the question, falling over themselves and each other to get out of the door.

"Fifteen," Eames called after them helpfully. They were out the door by twenty and showing no sign of slowing down. "Well," Eames said in his normal accent, closing and locking the back door again, "that was fun."

Arthur gave him a look of disgust. "Do we need to worry about them alerting the authorities?"

"Those clowns." Eames shook his head. "Not a chance. And there aren't any windows for them to put brick's through. I'd be more worried about them posting about us on Facebook. Or coming back with someone bigger - they leant that shit from somewhere."

Arthur nodded, tautly. "I'll monitor the situations. Take care of it if need be."

"And that," Eames nodded to Arthur's expression and said to Shiv in a not quite quiet enough aside, "is why they ran out the door looking like they were going to piss their pants." More normally he continued, "We should have a word with Brock about the security though, low key's great but I prefer low key and secure." He looked at Shiv. "A grenade?"

Shiv tossed it once more and then pumped the handle - a small flame leapt from the top. "Present from my first squad. Gave up the cancer sticks since then but keep the lighter for luck."

Eames was still laughing when the front door opened. They jumped to readiness, only to relax when they saw it was Brocklehurst and Jase. Brocklehurst regarded the three of them with curious suspicion.

"Do I want to know why there was a pair of teenage chavs high-tailing it away from this direction at a rate of knots?" he asked.

##### The Plan # 6

"I don't like it," Arthur complained, "it's too complicated. The more variables, the more things that can go wrong."

"It's a problem I'll grant you," Eames stood up and wandered over to the flip board, spreading his hands to encompass them all as he spoke. "But it meets all the criteria that were laid down."

Brocklehurst turned to Arthur. "You don't think it will work?"

"It'll work," Arthur grumbled, "I just don't like it."

##### The Grab

Eames looked up as Brocklehurst approached his desk.

"Arthur," he called across the room, "Brock has his serious expression on."

Interrupted, Shiv looked in their direction and then turned back to her model more interested in her latest set of changes than whatever they were cooking up. Furthest away from all of them Jase didn't react at all as he bopped along to the beat leaking from from his headphones and drip-fed something identifiable only by a string of alchemic letters and numbers into a row of equally mysterious test tubes. He was happy, or as happy as he got, and didn't appear about to poison them all so Eames was equally happy to leave him too it.

"What've you got?" Arthur said as he drew close.

"First," Brocklehurst replied, "do we think we could be ready to go in a week?"

"Shiv's level is pretty much ready to go, there are just a few little tweaks. Eames's forge is looking good. Jase's latest batch gave some very promising results. Yes - we could go in a week. You've got a window?"

Brocklehurst smiled, slow and satisfied. "Trip to Scotland. We can make sure he's on the first train in the morning - he'll be asleep by Reading."

"Reading does that to everyone," Eames confirmed.

"It gets better," Brocklehurst looked from one to the other. His wife's off at a conference at the moment. She's due back the day before. I think we can arrange for her to need a late flight."

"Isn't it wonderful when one's employers can just charter an airline" Eames murmured.

"Actually," Brocklehurst corrected, "I was more thinking along the lines of arranging a last minute, can't miss it meeting."

"And if that fails you can always call in a minor terrorist threat, that should shut things down for a few hours," Arthur made a quick note in his every present pad.

"Harder to control though," Brocklehurst pointed out.

Arthur shook his head. "Not if it's at Heathrow," he argued. "Then you can control when the alert starts and when the all clear is given."

"There are limits," Brocklehurst said primly, "Heathrow is of vital importance to the London economic hub and as an international terminal."

"But shutting down Charles de Gaulle or Frankfurt is perfectly fine," Eames said finely honed sarcasm.

Brocklehurst ignored the tone. "Exactly," he agreed.

"It could work," Arthur spoke over them. "Jane gets back late, they haven't seen each other for a while so even if they want to go straight to sleep he'll still have a disrupted night, and then an early morning... That'll be enough to put him out on its own. If Jase can give us something that will guarantee Mark'll be out without interfering with the somnacin then we can use that as back up - he's bound to get a drink at some point on the journey."

"We'll have to see what Jase says" Brocklehurst agreed. "And we'll have to make sure no one else's in that section of the train. Can't just leave unconscious high-ranking officials lying around - especially when we're the ones that made them that way."

"We'll also need someone watching us," Arthur added.

"What about Robbie from our training office?" Eames suggested. "Watching us'll be just like his day job... only moving."

"I assume he has clearance," Arthur waited for Brocklehurst' nod of conformation before he continued, "then he could give us the cues as well. Does Mark know him well enough to recognise or could we use him to administer the drug if necessary?"

"We brought Mark in a different way," Brocklehurst said after some thought. "I'll check but I don't think he and Mark have met."

Eames nodded and Arthur echoed him.

"That's settled then." Brocklehurst said firmly. "Let's go tell the others and see what Jase can cook up for us. We have a week gentlemen, let's do this right."


	17. Chapter 17

> _And so hold on when there is nothing in you  
>  Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"..._

~~~~

"Arthur," Nicholas said quietly as he approached the rendezvous point.

"When shall we three meet again?" Eames quoted, with heavy mockery and nodded to him from where he stood near the wall, the seemingly louche pose at odds with the sharp way that his attention flicked from one thing to the next in constant vigilance. Arthur nodded a wary greeting, not taking his hand off his gun.

He had a sudden visceral flashback to a week spent hunkered down while the rain beat incessant staccato rhythms on the grimy windows and all they had to do was sit around and wait, and talk, making backup plan after backup plan because who knew what would be waiting for them when they woke up. Or who would be waking up.

"Let's try and avoid inclement weather, shall we," he suggested. Nicholas and Eames looked at each other, smiling slightly. God - Brits and their weather fetish. It wasn't like theirs was the only country with a variable climate or rain or whatever it was that they seemed to think made it so special. "Forget it."

"Ready?" Nicholas asked Eames.

Eames straightened up, nodding.

"Mark's in the hotel restaurant." Nicholas continued. "Should be easy enough to keep him there. Try not to blacken my name too much."

"Just keep that bloody rogue out of the way," Eames said and let himself out.

Arthur looked over at Nicholas. "The plan for dealing with the projection?" he asked.

Nicholas shook his head. "Leave that to me. You'll have enough to deal with when the rest of them kick off." He didn't have the same devil-may-care grin that Eames sometimes got but the gleam in the eyes was the same. "You've done a good job - it isn't going to be easy."

"I don't do easy," Arthur said shortly.

The curl of Nicholas's lips was entirely too knowing and his gaze drifted to the door Eames had left by. "So I've noticed."

Arthur wanted to find an insult in the soft words, either to him or, to his surprise, to Eames. He couldn't find any beyond his suspicions. Arthur faced Nicholas, wanting to be perfectly clear and feeling it needed to be said. "I don't trust you."

Nicholas's expression suggested that that also wasn't news. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Arthur shrugged. "Not if it isn't for you."

"Then let's go." Nicholas nodded to Arthur's gun. "Just don't shoot me in the back until after we've extracted the information."

Arthur wasn't completely sure he was joking but the adrenaline of the moment was beginning to kick in; heart-racing clarity and calculated recklessness. "Deal," he agreed, throwing Nicholas's blasé fait accompli right back at him.

Arthur let Nicholas leave first. There was something going on and Arthur had learnt the hard way about team-mates keeping subconscious secrets. He'd do his job, but by his calculations that meant keeping the extractor safe and until the rogue projection was out of the picture that meant watching Nicholas's back. Which meant watching Nicholas. Sometimes things worked out like that.

The foyer of the hotel was a picture in polished marble, brass and glass. The theme was reflected above in high roofed splendour by two glittering chandeliers of the type that would look gauche in any smaller setting. The cool elegance was only offset by the tasteful jungle of potted greenery and comfortable leather seats arranged for the sharing of cream teas and idle conversation. A mezzanine level gave guests a panoramic view down on the opulence below and, more importantly, its inhabitants. Arthur watched as Nicholas patrolled along the balcony edge, attention on the floor beneath. He stopped suddenly and Arthur heard a distinct, 'damn,' as Nicholas took off. Arthur hurried after him, fast enough to see a familiar blond head in the crowd on the lower level heading purposefully towards the hotel's conference suites and, past them, the dinning rooms.

Arthur had no time to wonder if Eames had triggered something, he followed Nicholas down the stairs as swiftly as he could without drawing undue attention to himself. A few heads were turning to look at him but the projections weren't at the dangerous stage. He wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. Nicholas was doing the same, sliding between projections and furniture with practised ease as he balanced speed with conspicuousness.

The sign on the corridor wall listed the five function rooms on that floor: 'De Mey' and 'Del Prete' closest, 'Fukuda' off to the left, 'Necker' to the right and the 'Reutersvärd' ballroom past that. Of Nicholas, there was no sign. Arthur's pulse quickened and he purposefully slowed his breathing to compensate - this was not the time to let bodily reactions rush him into hasty action.

'De Mey' was empty of anything except stacks of uncomfortable looking chairs. 'Del Prete' was not.

"What the hell?"

Arthur wasn't entirely certain who actually said the words, beyond the accent being English, but he could only agree wholeheartedly. This was why he hadn't liked Eames's idea. Anything that could go wrong on a job inevitably did but Arthur would have to admit this was the first time he had seen one comprehensively fucked up by multiple versions of the same person all walking into a room with the mark. The crazy idea to try and pass Nicholas off as one of triplets sprang hysterically into his mind but it was clearly too late for any such explanations. And the only person brazen enough to actually try something so ridiculous was not about to break character to do so. This was definitely not how it had been supposed to go down.

Mark was staring at all the Nicholases, who were staring at each other in turn.

The room trembled.

All three Nicholases wavered for a second, identical expressions of wary determination as they circled each other. One made a move towards Mark, little more than a twitch, but that was enough to break the deadlock. The closer of the Nicholases jumped after him, tackling him down in a loud clatter of chairs while the third moved towards them. The two fighting Nicholases rolled together briefly on the floor, away from the third and towards Mark who watched in a fascinated, frozen horror. Arthur couldn't see the final blow but the uppermost Nicholas suddenly slumped limply before being thrown off as the winner scrambled up. Grabbing a stunned Mark by the arm he pulled him towards their nearest exit, presumably the one that Mark and his accompanying Nicholas had entered by.

"Mark," his protector insisted, "This way - quickly!"

'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' Arthur swore to himself. The remaining Nicholas sped towards the fleeing pair but Arthur didn't think he'd be fast enough to stop them. His first thought was to follow but someone needed to think logically unless they all wanted to be ripped limb from limb by a horde of riled up projections. They couldn't make a stand where they were - it was too open - but he could at least slow things down. He was nearly back to the first of the paired doors where he, and presumably Nicholas, had come in when he heard the slam of a door from behind him. There was no way he could have actually heard the lock snapping closed all the way across the room, not with the sound of two set of feet slapping against the corporate flooring or the warning clamour raising beyond the room, but, by some trick of lucid dreaming, he would've sworn he did. Skidding to a halt in front of the door he threw the reinforced catch and dragged a nearby table over to act as a makeshift barricade for good measure. They'd planned for this but it had been a back up of a back up four layers deep and he'd never thought that they'd need to use it. The second door at his end of the room should have been locked but you couldn't rely on 'should have's in the extraction business, even, especially, in your own mind when everything had gone to hell. A few seconds spent checking a locked door really was locked could mean valuable minutes not being overwhelmed later.

That done it was time to regroup:

First - find out who was down and how badly they were hurt. At least there was no sedative to worry about so they could administer a kick if necessary.

Second - find Mark and make sure the information they wanted would be available. Subtly was out of the window now but they might get lucky.

Third - get Mark away from the rogue. It hadn't killed him to kick him out of the dream yet but this would be a damned inconvenient time for it to start.

Fourth - don't get killed. With Mark aware the projections were going to be even more deadly.

Arthur looked down the room. Nicholas was walking towards him and, behind him, the downed Nicholas was begining to pull himself to his feet.

"Eames," Arthur demanded, "whichever you are - drop the forge, we don't have time to dick around."

~~~~

> _If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue..._

~~~~

There was an exhilaration under Mark’s shock. ‘This is a dream’, he reminded himself and even his thoughts sounded exultant and excited. ‘It's happening. This is a dream.’

It wasn’t that he’d missed it, although maybe he had a little. Or that the interminability of waiting had been torture - because even with the barely-organised chaos that was his life it was impossible to completely forget that someone was going to try to break into his head. Although he’d managed for whole minutes at a time. It was the thrill of having caught on.

The projection caught his arm and they ran. Everyone watched them as they went past: agitated, angry faces. They didn’t slow as they burst from the hotel, swapping twisty hallways for twisty streets and dark alleyways until they were alone and any potential pursuers lost. Mark leaned against the wall and caught his breath while the projection hovered over him, keeping watch.

“So, are we safe for now?” Mark asked.

The projection nodded but didn’t relax. Mark understood why the others didn’t trust it, but then it, _he_ , was Mark’s projection and Mark knew him in a way none of the others did. There was something infinitely reassuring about him; his aura of implacable competence and the wicked glint in his smile he never quite concealed. And this would, hopefully, be the last time Mark saw him.

"Can you change how you look?" Mark had always wondered.

"A little.” The projection did another swift scan of their surroundings before turning to him. ”Did you want me to be someone else?"

"I just wondered why you looked like you."

The projection frowned “Who else would I look like?”

It was a good question and one Mark didn’t have an answer to. But then as far as he could tell no one was sure why he had a rogue projection in his head at all, or why it did the things it did. Of all its mysteries, its appearance was apparently the one he was supposed to be troubled by the least. Not that it had been discussed very much.

Mark straightened, the air flowing in and out of his lungs easily once more. He had no idea where they were and there was nothing in their immediate vicinity except tarmac, concrete and brickwork. Someone must have studied the traffic flow of projections in general but whatever governed their movements the back road that Mark and his projection were standing in was definitely off the beaten track. Which meant they were finally alone. _He_ was finally alone - just him and the most contrary part of his psyche.

Mark kissed him.

The projection made a surprised sound, quiet and breathy against his mouth and Mark realised that it was the first time he had taken the initiative in their little game. It was the last time, their last time, and they both knew how these things played out. Mark couldn’t see the point in waiting.

The projection felt stiff against him, barely responding after the initial tremor, and Mark drew back.

“We should go,” the projection observed, the hint of concern in his voice. So that was the problem - alone was not secure enough. As Mark had discovered, ‘safety first’ had rather a different meaning in lucid dream terms.

“You could kill me..?” Mark offered. ”Kick me out of the dream.”

The warnings about fake dreams and sedatives rang through his mind.

The projection regarded him with consternation. “I don’t want you to die.”

“I don’t want to die either,” Mark assured him. “Not yet.” He smiled. “Lead the way.”

The projection gave him a indecipherable look but did as he was told.

“Did he say anything to you?” The projection asked as they walked.

Mark shook his head. They weren’t running but he had to walk fast to keep up with the pace that the projection was setting.

“Then they still need to prompt you,” the projection told him and Mark felt the warm blush of relief. The projection smiled at him. ”Whatever they’re after…” He looked swiftly around as they got to a turning, decisively leading them to the right. “We need to hide. I know a secret place we can go for a brief time. You might remember it.”

Mark remembered a lot of things. “I think you like spiriting me off,” he joked.

“Precious things need to be kept secure.”

Mark looked at him sidelong. “Am I a precious thing?”

“It’s just a phrase.”

The projection pushed open a gate and led them into the back of a building. It was new and familiar in the way that things could only be in dreams. They stopped outside a heavy door on the first floor.

“Here,” the projection said.

Mark stopped in the doorway to draw a shocked breath. It was the study from the residence in Washington.

It wasn’t, of course, he realised as the projection chivvied him in and shut the door firmly behind them. There were some similarities beyond the browns and greens and bronze earth tones: the rows of books stretching floor to picture rail around the walls; the fireplace behind the heavy desk with its bright red phone - the brightest object in the room - and the tall windows that had never let in quite enough light. There were differences too. The desk was larger, the occasional detailing inspired more by classical drama than pastoral ideals and there was a mirror over the fireplace where the portrait of Winston Churchill had been. Mark had always felt a little uncomfortable with it, the heavy and serious gaze always staring over his shoulder. He’d assumed that was intentional, a way to remind the incumbent not to sit too comfortably.

Mark walked over to the desk and sank into the chair.

“Like being back,” he murmured to himself. The projection drifted over to him as Mark knew he would. “Of course this wouldn’t have happened…”

Mark stood, catching the projection as he got near and preempting the kiss. This time the projection went with it, pushing him back until he was pinned him against the wall, the projection plastered against his front. It would have been more comfortable if they’d been able to avoid the fireplace, the surround digging into his lower back but that was of no importance compared to the soft demand of the projection’s mouth.

Mark spared a hasty thank you to whoever's subconscious had deposed Churchill as his head clunked lightly against the glass of the mirror.

“Seven years bad luck,” he said against the projection’s lips. The projection kissed his way along Mark’s jaw, nuzzling into his neck below his ear and Mark tipped his head a little more, revelling in the feeling. “If that’s seven years in the dream, how long is that in real life?”

The projection whispered something against his skin that he couldn’t catch.

“Humm?” He hadn’t really expected an answer. The projection straightened slightly, one hand sprawled out against the glass of the mirror behind Mark, holding hands with his reflection. He blinked at Mark, trying to make sense of what Mark was asking him. Mark shook his head fondly, dismissing the question.

Mark couldn’t help it - he chuckled. If he turned his head just a bit he could see the shapes in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. “Do you ever wonder if they’re the real ones and we’re just reflections.”

“No.”

Mark smiled at that. “I rather feel like I’m having a threesome.”

The projection looked from him to the mirror behind him. “Oh.” It was little more than an exhale of understanding. He began to lower his arm, backing away.

“That wasn’t a complaint.”

The projection froze.

“In fact,” Mark murmured pressing forward, dislodging himself from the decor.

This was the freedom of dreaming; thrilling and terrifying. To be able to act in a way that he never would in real life. To be able to do anything. He pushed the projection’s jacket off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. The dark straps of his shoulder holster stood out against the pale silver of his shirt. It shouldn’t have been as much of a jolt to see it as it was. Mark had known he must have been armed. Mark left it on, reaching down instead to unhook the projection’s trousers. The projection stopped him, catching his hands and holding them still. He could feel the warmth of the projection’s hands where they surrounded his and, under his fingers, the tell-tale hint of hard body and hardening flesh.

"I believe it’s your job to distract me. And I have it on very good authority,” Mark stretched out his fingers, stroking along the tight fabric, “that this is just very elaborate masturbation and everyone does it."

"Mark..." The projection backed away and Mark followed him. "I'm not a projection, Mark."

"That's what you always say." It’d thrown him at first, the way that the projection had seemed to know so much about the world it inhabited but completely lacked self-awareness of his own place in it.

“Mark. Stop. I’m not a projection. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“Say it,” the projection obviously wasn’t in the mood to be humoured.

“You aren’t a projection,” Mark said with complete certainty. It was a lie but that hardly mattered. He leant forward for a kiss but the projection stopped him again.

“Are you sure Mark?” the projection insisted. ”Are you sure you want this?”

Mark’s “Yes” was almost lost in his exhalation of profound satisfaction as the projection finally took him at his word. He lost no time on undoing the projection’s flies - button then zip - and pushing the material open. The projection saved him the dilemma of the best way to extracting his cock from his underwear by pushing them down, hooking the elastic under his balls.

The projection’s cock was slight different to how he remembered it - a little thicker, a little more of a curve up and slightly left, the hair surrounding it not quite as sunshine pale. It was never quite the same from one time to the next, mood or flight of fantasy or some aspect of lucid dreaming that he didn’t understand taking the broad strokes of his memory of the clothed Nicholas and filling in new details on his doppelgänger where his knowledge failed. It would probably worry him if it was any other way, but the unreality of it all reassured him.

At some point in every straight man’s life, unless he was completely self-involved, a girl he was hoping to get a blow job from would say something that made him think about what it must be like to give one. It’d happened to Mark. It had never been more than an academic curiosity - a how the other half lived thing - but dreaming was about the chance to do things you wouldn’t do otherwise, things that you didn’t want to to do otherwise. This was just another weapon in his hand.

It turned out to be surprisingly easy to slide down onto his knees and find out. Mark wondered how many times he’d been faced with this situation and had the same thoughts. The projection’s cock tasted of skin and sweat, warm and solid on his tongue. He should have asked how it was that he could experience things in a dream that he never had in real life. Did his mind just extrapolate from what it believed to be similar sensations - and what was similar to this? Could it pick up knowledge from other people sharing the dream, at least one of whom Mark assumed had some knowledge of the situation from this side? Or was it just a feedback loop that Mark believed he was sucking cock in the dream so his mind accepted that and made him think that what he was feeling must be right? Perhaps that was one of those things that it was better not to know. Much better to focus of the slick flesh sliding between his lips and the shuddering breaths he could hear over his head.

He looked up, along the line of the projection’s torso. The projections chest was heaving a little shakily, his face flushed. It was a start but not enough. Mark wanted to make him moan, make him beg, inflict some sort of misguided revenge on the projection for all the times that its real-world counterpart hadn’t reacted when Mark had wanted him too. A man by Kipling’s rubric, keeping his head no matter the provocation when what Mark wanted from him was an honest reaction.

Mark tried to take the projection deeper into his mouth only to find the angle worked against him. He brought his hand up instead, wrapping it around the base of the projection’s cock. That was easier. Stroking the lower half of his erection while sucking on the top. The projection growled low in his throat. Mark took that as encouragement. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the projection’s hands where they gripped the edge of the table, the knuckles white with pressure. He found a rhythm that worked for him and seemed to work for the projection judging by the sounds half-caught in the projection's throat. With his free hand he caught at the projection’s right, detaching it from the wood and bringing it to his head. The projection whimpered, petting at Mark’s hair with a gentle touch when the fingers of his other hand were clawing into the underside of the desktop.

This was better, Mark decided. He hadn’t expected the feeling of power that the projection’s reactions gave him. Any awkwardness he might have felt at what he was doing was lost in intellectual fascination at just what responses he could coax from the projection’s body. He began to bob his head with more intent, moving his hand in concert with the action. A little faster, a little more pressure. The projection’s fingers tensed, tight in his hair for a moment and then released.

“Mark.” The projections voice was fractured, the hard constituents splintering to pieces in his mouth. “Like this?”

Mark pulled away and the projection deflated with a rueful sigh, breathing deeply to calm himself as Mark stood up. His knees were stiff and he own erection was making itself known, held uncomfortably tightly by his clothing. He adjusted himself, trying to find a better position.

“What do you want?” The projection’s voice was rough. If his expression was anything to go by Mark could have asked for the world and the projection would have tried to give it too him. The projection kissed him before he could answer, mouth hot and tongue sliding into Mark’s mouth with a desperate need. His face was cupped, hands spreading out from his jaw to catch around his head. It was a heady thing to be the focus of that much need and desire. He couldn’t stop himself pressing back against the projection, his cock throbbing from the stimulation as they moved against each other. In another world he would care about the spit-slicked cock wiping itself over his cloths but in another world this wouldn’t be happening. In this world he didn’t care about anything but how good it felt.

The projection stopped the kiss, holding him away but only barely.

“God, Mark,” the words were breathed in benediction. “Whatever you want?”

Mark looked at him.

“Fuck me,” he said firmly. It felt good to say the words.

The projection nodded shakily. With one swift peck on Mark’s lips he turned. Leaning on the desk, arms braced himself against the burnished wood.

A silent offer for Mark to take whatever he wanted.

“My turn,” Mark corrected him, one hand on his shoulder to pull him back around. Mark put his hand up to the projection’s face, stroking his thump over the smooth plane of his cheek as the projection had done to him. "Not this time," he said gravely. "This time it's my turn."

He could see the objection gathering and kissed it away. His mind, his projection, his rules.

“Fuck me,” he said against the projections lips. Into his mouth. Against his cheek. “Fuck me.”

"Okay," the projection agreed, "okay." The words fell as a mantra, involuntary and a little instinctual.

They weren’t going to get very far unless there was a good deal less clothing in the equation. The projection’s trousers were already half down his arse and it was easy to push them down further. Mark could feel the taut muscles of thighs and arse under his hands. His view was obscured by the projection’s shirt which, having been released from his trousers, now fell like a modesty veil around his hips. That wouldn’t do at all. Mark attacked the projection’s shirt buttons with an aggression born of frustration. The projection helped him and soon he stood revealed to Mark’s gaze.

He should have looked silly - trousers and pants bunched around his thighs, shirt hanging open and cock thrusting out as a centre point of the two broad strips of skin. But _should have_ had never been particularly applicable to Nicholas and the same was true for his dream equivalent. With complete lack of embarrassment the projection more than made up for any awkwardness. Confidence and power - the two great aphrodisiacs. The projection certainly wasn’t lacking in the former. Mark remembered enough of him in action from previous dreams to know that any capitulation to Mark was from choice rather than any necessity and wasn’t that the biggest rush of all? Childish perhaps, but undeniable.

Mark undid his own clothes as he studied the pale, toned body in front of his. The projection smirked, apparently enjoying the attention and lounged against the desk, watching Mark in turn. Mark pushed aside any self-consciousness he might have felt. It was only fair and he’d more than enough to distract him.

The freckles were new - tiny imperfections in the pale skin that make it seem so much more real. Mark decided he liked them. The hair was new as well. Not so much on the projection’s chest which only had a light cover - more a gilding of the muscles than anything else - but lower down his stomach. Not an unusual amount when Mark came to think about it, but the presence of the pale, slightly wiry hairs, less populous than at his groin but now revealed as spreading from his navel and across his thighs, struck Mark as different. Somehow both more and less kinky than the smoother versions of the projection he had been with before.

“Touch yourself,” he directed.

The projection made a small noise of intermingled surprise and desire. His cock twitched, the movement almost making it seem as if it too was nodding agreement with the suggestion.

God! Mark quickly dispensed with the few remaining buttons on his shirt and torn open the fastener on his trousers. His cock surged forward, relief at its extrication warring with a deep desire for the stimulation that was now being denied him. The projection’s hand moved with slow assurance as it traversed the long length of his erection, the darker head ducking in and out of the folds of foreskin in response to the pull and push of the action.

“Look at you,” the projection murmured as if Mark were something special.

“You can do more than look.” Mark stepped forward and the projection let go of his cock in favour of catching Mark’s hips pulling him closer still.

The projection’s skin was slightly cool against his, exposed as it had been to the open air, but it warmed quickly. The only exception was the hot presence of the projection’s cock and balls against his abdomen, rubbing against him as his rutted into the dip of the projection’s hipbone in return. Part of him wanted to reach down and gather them both up, jerk them both to completion in the dark, narrow space between their bodies. They kissed, desperate and frenzied. A twist to change the angle of the kiss and their cocks knocked into each other, brushing against each other in spit-slicked rhapsodies.

Mark moved closer, crowding the projection until he was half on the desk and Mark over him. If they were in the real world Mark might have worried about the the bruises that were being painted on his skin by mouth and teeth and fingertips. The projection’s hands dragged down his back, pulling at the hard muscle, while he leant down to lick over Mark’s nipple and nip at the soft skin of his throat. Mark retaliated with open-mouthed kisses, covering the projection’s chest and neck until he’d anointed every freckle he could see. It wasn’t enough. Shifting to find a more satisfying angle he discovered himself hobbled, his trousers, pushed down as they were, restricting his position. He tried to kick them off. When that didn’t work he pulled away long enough to shove underwear, trousers, socks and shoes from his legs in short, violent movements. Satisfied he tried again, spreading his legs either side of the projections and lifting himself up a little to try and position himself to take the waiting flesh.

“Come on,” Mark demanded, catching the projection’s cock to guide it into position. “Come on.”

“Christ, Mark,” the projection caught his shoulder and pushed him off a little. “Lube.”

Really? Mark didn’t remember using it before but this last time all about trying new things and if the projection wanted to add that to proceedings then Mark had no objection as long as they added it now.

“Where?”

“My jacket pocket,” the projection admitted. “You should find some there.”

“Damn it,” Mark groaned. The projection’s jacket was well out of arms reach.

“Here,” the projection steered him gently away and down into the nearby armchair. He grabbed his jacket and reached into the pocket. Ready for anything - that was Mark’s projection. The type of person who’d have lube - and what did it come in? Tubes? Sachets? - with him along with his gun, knife and probably a set of lock picks or equally nefarious items. He knew, having seen Nicholas’ wallet, that his real world counterpart carried condoms so it only made sense that here, where condoms weren’t needed, the projection would carry something equivalent. The projection brandished a couple of sealed packets and bounded back. Mark started to get up but the projection put a hand out to stop him.

“Let me,” he said.

“Wha..?” Mark managed before the projection knelt and returned his earlier favour.

The projection’s mouth was hot and practiced, sucking him down with a swift surety that stole Mark’s breath away. He swallowed dryly. The projection licked his way back up, playing with the soft folds of his foreskin as he paid attention to the sensitive head before inching his way from tip to base with agonising patience.

Mark moaned as the projection swallowed around the hard flesh gagging him. The resemblance to his old study in Washington struck him forcibly once more. His old study and Nicholas on his knees in front of him and sucking him off. Mark shivered, aware the attraction of that scenario had nothing to do with sex. Very deliberately the projection caught one of Mark’s hands and put it on his head as Mark had done to him earlier. He didn’t release him though, holding Mark’s hand in place as he began to move, encouraging Mark to control the speed and depth.

Satisfied that Mark had understood, the projection urged him forwards to the very edge of the chair, hooking one of Mark’s legs over his shoulder. All the while the projection’s mouth whispered sweet promises along the length of Mark’s cock. Mark could see where this was going. The projection looked up and met Mark’s gaze. Mark nodded, knowing somehow that the projection was looking for a further sign.

Eyes scrutinising Mark, the projection’s fingers brushed over the sensitive skin behind his balls and back towards the tight opening of his body. He flinched slightly, instinctively, away from the touch.

“No,” he insisted as the projection immediately began to move his hand away. His finger’s tangled in the projection’s hair, not to keep him in place if he wanted to stop, but to let him know that he still wanted this. “Keep going.”

The projection hesitated and Mark was seized by the sudden fear that he would stop. He shifted, spreading his legs slightly further apart to give the projection better access.

“Go on,” he said.

The projection moved slowly, tentatively, stroking over the puckered skin. Mark pushed into the touch, trying to prove with action as well as word that it was alright. The projection butted at his hand slightly, a reminder that he had control if he wanted it and took him deeper into his mouth, sucking obscenely around his cock as he did so. Mark gasped. He could feel the projection’s fingers - there but not - not quite pushing in as they circled his hole. He wasn’t sure when the projection added the lubrication, or even that he had, but his touch was slick and easy.

The projection brought his other hand up to circle the base of Mark’s cock, jerking him off while his lips and tongue played over the head. It wasn’t enough to keep Mark from noticing as the first finger slipped in. Not far, just testing the way before withdrawing. Mark’s breath came out in more of a rush than he’d intended but the projection didn’t stop, working first one finger and then a second into his arsehole. It felt strange, foreign and not entirely comfortable. It got easier until the projection was working his arse in time with his cock; his hard length gliding into the tight ring of the projection’s lips as the projection’s fingers glided into the tight ring of his entrance. More pressure, stretching him further and Mark realised that there were three fingers exploring his insides.

He’d calmed a little he realised, the fever that had driven him broken although the intention behind it remained. And was growing stronger with every passing second.

“Hey,” he said and the projection looked up at him, searching.

Mark drew him up. “Enough,” he pleaded.

The projection didn’t look completely convinced. “I could bring you off like this first,” he offered. “It’ll be easier.”

Mark to hear the silent ‘if you still want to do this’ tacked onto the end.

He shook his head. “Let’s do this,” he said decisively.

The projection stood and Mark couldn’t take his eyes away from the wide jut of his cock. How much bigger was it than three fingers? How much better would it feel?

“The floor?’ the projection suggested.

Mark could see the logic, but his days of having sex on the floor were long past. He smiled.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” he confided as he swept the nearby desk clear in an almighty clatter. “Up.”

The projection looked like he was about to object, then shrugged and hopped himself up until he was sitting on the desk. He looked at Mark with the thought ‘what next?’ clearly in his eyes. The desk was a lot higher than it looked but Mark had never felt the need to climb on it before. He settled himself across the projection’s lap with a distinct feeling of triumph. The projection took in their relative positions, eyes flicking from Mark to their surround on blatant calculation. Catching Mark around the waist he shuffled back a bit further, allowing Mark more room on the desk.

“You’re insane,” he said fondly.

Did that make him a figment of Mark’s instability? More than enough people in Mark’s life had told him to go fuck himself. He might be doing it indirectly but they’d definitely got their wish over the last few months.

"Can I trust you?" Mark wondered, an abrupt wave of vulnerability washing over him.

The projection kissed him; sweet and hot. "No," he said against Mark's skin. “No. And if I ever tell you otherwise don't trust me for a second.”

Mark laughed because the projection wore Nicholas’s face and offered confessions of disloyalty as pillow promises. That was all the reassurance he needed. Reaching down he angled the projection’s cock underneath him. He could feel the tip of it pressing against the entrance to his body and maybe the whole thing with the lube and the fingers had been a good idea after all because he was baring down and nothing was happening.

He had a sudden feeling of panic, of ‘too big, won’t fit’, of ‘what am I doing?’, but that was ridiculous. They were much of a size and it hadn’t been a problem when the projection had laid himself open to everything Mark had to give him in the back room of Eames’ illegal prohibition club or later against the wheel of their air ship or in a summer’s glade under sighing branches as Ents rampaged or any one of the other times they’d ended up with Mark buried so deeply in the projection that it had felt like they were one person. Mark couldn’t remember any exact details but he knew beyond question that it had happened - remembered flashes of togetherness and of Nicholas’s strong body against his - but it had always been easy; melting together like chocolate in the sun, sweet and messy, and then unmelting into something new but separate once more. Something tight in his chest loosened. He could do this. This was his dream - he could do anything he liked.

And then it was there - the solid head of the projections’ cock lodged in his body. The projection looked at him with Nicholas’s eyes but an expression that Mark had never seen on Nicholas’s face - shocked and aroused and not entirely believing what was happening.

“Mark,” the projection said his name, sounding almost as dazed as he felt.

It was there. Mark pushed down the instinctive moment of panic. It was there. Inside him.

It.

Was.

THERE.

“Mark. Mark.” The projection repeated, fingers pulling ineffectually at him with to encourage him up and away. “We don’t have to do this.”

Oh, but Mark did. The first rush of adrenaline was coursing through him, stoking his flagging desire with a wild, stubborn abandon. He took a deep breath, releasing it in an equally comprehensive exhalation. That helped.

“‘S good,” he gasped. “‘S good.”

The projection stilled.

“Slow,” the projection warned.

Mark had worked that bit out for himself. He rocked gently, not really pulling away or pushing down so much as finding his place. The slickness of the lubricant eased him on, allowing him to work himself a little lower onto the projection’s cock with each flex of his knees. His entire world was reduced down to that feeling of his body slowly opening up to and accepting that this invader was welcome. He could feel the knife edge of pleasure nicking him with small cuts - unexpected promises of what could be. He was getting there. The pressure inside him transferring itself to his balls and gathering into a tiny ball of possibility.

The projection’s fingers were tight on his hips, not directing him but holding on as a drowning man grasped at a piece of passing flotsam. He was leant back onto his elbows to give Mark more room to move, his eyes closed as if he couldn’t bare to let himself watch. Mark leaned forward to kiss him and he jumped at the unexpected touch of Mark’s lips to his own, his cock thrusting up into the tight clench of Mark’s arse. They both froze. Mark put one arm carefully down on one side of the projection, shifting his weight forwards. The angle worked better and he sank lower, incremental advances that were victories all the same.

“Kiss me,” he asked.

The projection did, gentle and tender and so different from their previous clashes of mouth and tongue.

“Mark,” he whispered and it was like a prayer.

So caught up in these new caresses Mark was shocked to find he had nowhere left to go, his body flush against the projections and the full length of the projection’s cock nestled snugly inside him. This time when he clenched his muscles it was in deliberate tease. The projection’s cheeks held the pink flush of exertion and arousal, setting off the blue of his eyes. And they gleamed, bright intelligence given way to much more primal urges. The projection didn’t try to reclaim any control however, letting Mark explore the new sensations that his different actions could bring. Only the hoarse panting of his breath and the slight tremor along his frame giving away how much it was costing him to remain still.

As his confidence grew Mark began to move faster. At the borders of his understanding there was a flicker of craving; an itch that he couldn’t place that needed scratching. He found it between one roll of his hips and the next - a bright flare of pleasure that ignited sparks along his nerves. The technical details of what it must have been came and went in his mind - the only thing that mattered was finding that spot again. It took him a few more manoeuvres before he hit it, not quite perfect but close enough to choke a gasp from him. The third time he found it faster. There and there and _there_. It was addicting; a need that had to be fulfilled but which grew ever more each time it was assuaged. Instinct drove him down onto the projection’s cock with greater force and the projection, wonder of wonders, managed to shift himself or the chair or something, Mark was beyond paying attention to such practicalities, to allow him to get some leverage and he was meeting Mark’s thrusts with his own.

Then he wrapped his hand around Mark’s cock and everything narrowed into even tighter focus. Mark was caught between two satisfactions, the projection’s cock stroking inside him and the projection’s hand stroking outside. Both ratcheting his need higher until he was stretched and strung out on the sensation. The hard, hot feeling in his balls wound tighter and tighter.

And then it snapped.

Mark was nebulously aware of the bursts of come, pale streaks against flushed skin, that both he and the projection failed to block with hand or tissue as they spurted forth to stripe the projection’s chest. Of the clench and release of his own body as he gave up all control to instinctual compulsion. Of the projection coming under him, a wounded groan escaping from his throat as his movements became sharp and abrupt. Of his name, barely managed, crowning one upthrust like a badge of honour. He was aware of the heat of his skin and the harsh violence of his breathing. Of the clench of ecstasy that racked him, every motion, every touch driving it to new heights until it consumed him.

Everything and nothing existed in that moment.

And then it was over.


	18. Chapter 18

> _Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch..._

~~~~

Eames shook his head to clear it. Nicholas might have been pulling his punches but the floor hadn't been so courteous. Getting up he was dismayed to see the projection bearing down on Arthur with, Eames assumed, death in its eyes. And Arthur, bless the man, yelling at him about dropping his forge.

"Arthur, get the hell away from him," he yelled right back, letting the forge drop. The last thing they needed was Arthur to start doubting he was himself. "That's the bloody rogue."

Arthur moved. Fucking hell - did Arthur move; vaulting over the back of the nearest chair to land on the cushioned seat he jumped straight to the row in front and ran along the seats and away from the projection.

"Get the other door," Arthur shouted, reaching the end of the row and sprinting towards the partly open partition wall that divided 'Del Prete' from 'Fukuda'. "Damn it, Eames."

The projection turned and looked at Eames. Not willing to wait around to find out which of the two of them was judged the bigger threat, Eames did as he was told. Barrelling into the corridor, Eames slammed the door shut behind him and threw the lock. He only had time to draw a heavy breath when he could just hear a muffled thump from inside the room. That resolved that particular question. Eames waited - unsure if the noise had been made by Arthur's body or in the pursuit of it, and whether there was anything he could do. A sudden crack of sound at his own door, shivering it with the impact, moved the question from the abstract to immediate. Eames jumped back, pulling out his gun and training it on the doorway. With some relief he noted Arthur's sudden presence further along in the corridor, having made good his own escape.

Eames kept his attention on the door as Arthur got closer. "Tell me it doesn't have a key."

"How the hell should I know?" Arthur demanded, a little winded but with more than enough breath for scorn.

The door reverberated again as something heavy hit it from the other side.

"Guess not," Eames wasn't quite ready to relax yet but the absurdity of it all was beginning to get to him. "Are the doors steel reinforced?"

Arthur gave him a withering look because it was Arthur's dream and he didn't want the thing to escape any more than Eames did. "Of course." There was a long silence and Arthur and Eames looked at each other and then back at the suspiciously silent door. "You think it can pick the lock?" Arthur wondered aloud.

"If it was actually Nicholas..." Eames said a little uncertainly, "but Mark's projection..." There was another loud crash against the door. "I doubt it," he finished.

"Thank fuck for that," Arthur breathed. They looked at each other and grinned. "He must have been checking the other doors," Arthur decided. He pivoted around and started off down the corridor. "Come on."

"We're just going to leave him there?" Eames hurried to catch up, looking back and forth between Arthur and the door as he matched pace.

Arthur regarded him with impatient irritation. "Unless you have a better idea?" They reached the corner but instead of taking the turning Arthur rounded on Eames. "What the hell were you and Mark doing there anyway? You were supposed to be in the dining room."

Eames raised his hands peaceably. "Apparently there was a fire in the kitchens and the dining room was closed down."

"The rogue?" Arthur asked with surprise, anger gone.

"Or Mark's defences kicking in." Eames speculated (1:2 - the rogue, 1:2 - Mark's subconscious getting lucky). "The wait staff were more than usually surly. Was this Brocklehurst's plan?" He waved back at the way they had come and the still audible assault on the architecture. "Lock him in a cupboard?"

Arthur looked as if he'd been sucking on a lemon, mouth pinched and tight with disapproval. "I don't know," he admitted. "He didn't have time to tell me. Doesn't matter now, does it?"

A projection (female, white-asian, chic bob, uniform of the hotel) walked towards them and they fell silent. She eyed them with clear dislike but didn't attack. They watched her, poised to react, as she walked down the hall they'd just come from and towards the locked room.

"We could run," Eames suggested out of the corner of his mouth.

Arthur shook his head. "Better to know and deal with it now while it's just them."

A muffled thump and the projection stopped outside the room.

"Ready?" Arthur murmured.

Bending down she retied her shoe lace and then continued on.

Eames breathed out heavily. "It still won't hold him for long."

"It doesn't need to hold him for long." Arthur looked around but other than the leaving projection they were alone. "Just long enough." He nodded towards the direction from the T-junction that would take Eames towards the back exit. "Looks like you're playing extractor after all. You know where you're going?"

"Government building one block over," Eames said quickly. "Office is on the fifth floor."

"You better get on with it. I'll keep them distracted."

Eames nodded. "See you at the kick," he said by way of goodbye.

He'd gone a few paces when Arthur called after him, "Eames."

Eames turned.

"Don't do anything that might get us shot."

Eames grinned. "I'm not the one that the projections are going to be after," he pointed out.

Arthur did not look noticeably happier at the reminder. Normally the chance to wreak destruction on all and sundry made him almost chirpy. "It's not down here what worries me."

Eames spread his arm, stepping backwards as he spoke. "Trust me."

It was probably lucky he didn't hear Arthur's reply.

~~~~

> _If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you..._

~~~~

They pulled apart slowly, eyes still locked on each other as the insanity of the moment petrified into lucidity. Mark blinked. The desk was cold and hard under his knees, the edge digging into his shins and he was suddenly and intensely conscious of the coolness of the air against his bare skin. Of how much bare skin there was. He shifted, trying to relieve the suddenly uncomfortable stretch in the muscles of his thighs.

"Careful." The projection helped him keep some balance and dignity as he disengaged himself. The latter was a lost cause but the projection was an accurate enough manifestation to share Nicholas's more 'solicitous until he isn't' traits.

They fixed their clothing in silence.

It had never been like this before; the silences between them warm and sedate and free of any malaise, their time together full of a diffuse satisfaction that held no peak and no matching trough. The soft focus of their stolen moments had been the only thing real about them and the projection had fit without question - besides him; around him; within him (as far as that applied). This version watched him with withdrawn curiosity, biding his time and his thoughts of which Mark was sure he was preeminent but not part. It was that more than the numerous physical discomforts and twinges making themselves known in a way he has never felt before that made Mark start to question.

"You are real, aren't you?" Mark blurted. "I mean not a projection."

Nicholas stared at him, an arctic waste's worth of ice and distance in his gaze. "Does it matter at this point," he said finally.

And Mark believed.

The world tilted, tipping him onto a nearby chair when his legs wouldn't stand. He'd just enough instinct and self-preservation left to make sure he didn't end up on the floor. Nicholas was suddenly there, solicitous and concerned, and Mark wasn't sure how he'd come to be so close.

"I know..." Mark could hear the echoes of Nicholas's insistent words 'not a projection', 'say it...', 'sure?' like a rolling barrage. "You said...." Nicholas's hands felt so warm against his own and he shook them off because he had to do something with the roiling energy, sharp and acid, inside him. Had to move because he couldn't sit still and he didn't think Nicholas would let him leave - and who knew how much longer it would be until the timer ran out and it would be over. The carpet was thick under his feet, stifling the noise of his too-heavy, staccato footsteps when he would have childishly relished the clatter; bleeding off the volatile restless as noise.

"Mark," Nicholas was saying as if he needed reminding who he was. And maybe he did.

Mark stopped, abruptly still and burning cold. "Bloody hell, Nicholas," the words froze and shattered and something in his chest did the same. "I just cheated on my wife?"

"It wasn't real Mark." And Mark thought he had heard Nicholas say the same words before but they made no more sense than they had the last time. Nicholas didn't come any closer to him. "Mark," Nicholas repeated again. "It was just a dream. It wasn't real."

Did Nicholas truly believe that or was he spinning a pretty lie? All their arguments, their hypotheticals, were meaningless. It didn't matter whether Nicholas believed what he was saying, whether Mark believed. It was all a lie.

"Will I remember?" Mark asked, surprised at how calm he sounded.

"I don't know."

"Will you?"

Nicholas shrugged.

"I love my wife... my family." Maybe it was his own iniquity coming back to him, after all his wasn't the first wife he'd loved. They had tried, Saida and he - for James' sake, for their own sakes - but they hadn't tried hard enough because what were little things like honour, friendship and commitment in the face of love. Had Saida felt a similar self-condemnation after their first time? Had she thought of her husband as she lay in Mark's arms or just of her own, their, sin? She'd always been stronger than him. It tore at his heart knowing how many more apologies he should have given her when he could and how many more he now owed his wife.

"Nothing is changed, Mark," Nicholas said gently.

Because it was all a dream. Because they would wake up and it would be as if it never happened. You could kill and torture in dreams and it meant nothing so why couldn't you fuck as well? When, after he and Saida had come to their senses, disavowed their weakness and promised that it would never, could never, happen again had she despised him as much as he wanted to despise Nicholas? They could say whatever they liked but it was too late. At least this time Mark meant every word of his renunciation. But then this time he'd had no excuse either, pitiful as it was; no grand love - just the punchline to a joke that hadn't ever really been funny. But then if Nicholas believed his own argument he wouldn't be the other side of the room, pale as a sheet and just as blank.

"I don't think that's true." A diplomat's temporisation when what he wanted to say was so much more damning.

Nicholas watched him carefully. "What are you afraid of?" he asked.

Was he afraid? Mark didn't think so. Or maybe it was fear - the fear that in one thoughtless moment he'd lost the love he'd thought he would never find again and had handed over the rod, not only for his own back but for his wife's, to those who would have no scruples about using it. It stuck him as hysterical, horrifically, nauseously hysterical, that the one thing his wasn't afraid of was the thing that Nicholas clearly suspected.

"I was never bothered by the rumours," Mark told him. They both knew which rumours Mark was talking about - an unmarried Ambassador, highly placed and not, so Mark had been told, bad looking or unpersonable. The gossip had been inevitable. "They weren't true and, well," Mark allowed the faintest hint of the vague amusement he'd felt, then and now, to seep through, "it was a bit cool." Nicholas expression didn't change but then for Nicholas it had never been a question of coolness or otherwise. Mark refused to feel guilty about that, not when it came to Nicholas. And, when it came down to it, it had been so much easier to ignore what he knew was a lie. Had Nicholas known back then what the neglected lies concealed? Not the details, Mark suspected, although he'd given up the truth of the affair in return for his security clearance so Nicholas might've known after all. Might or might not have connected that knowledge the video of a forgotten massacre. "Better than the truth." Because the truth that he had loved his best friend's wife was still the truth and the lie was still a lie. "You have to report this, don't you?"

"I'm sorry Mark. I'll have to say something." Nicholas did look apologetic although Mark was not wholly convinced it was all on his behalf. Nicholas could hardly tell the story and keep his own involvement out of it. Mark wasn't sure what his bosses would think of that - was that the type of thing that got one commendations or slapped wrists when one was in Nicholas's line of work? "I can try and keep the specific details out of it," Nicholas offered.

Did Nicholas honestly think that Mark cared whether they knew he had been willing to, had insisted, that Nicholas top? Sex was sex - who'd done what to whom was nothing compared to the fact that it had happened at all.

"I've been through the enhanced clearance interview," Mark reminded Nicholas pointedly. "I remember how much Whitehall likes details."

Which Nicholas must have know as well as he did. Better. Mark might have undergone the mill wheels of enhanced clearance but they had never augmented that interrogation with drugs or burrowed into his mind - at least not until Nicholas had lead the assault. The energy that had driven him was completely gone. Drained and weary he sat in the nearest chair. It was comfortable. Something had to be.

There was a clock on the wall, simple and practical. Mark hadn't even registered it's presence until an uncomfortable silence fell between them and the light tick, tick, tick of its mechanism measured out and cut his nightmare into moments.

"You really thought I was the projection?" Nicholas said at last.

"As you said yourself..." Mark looked at the desk, the same as it had always been although that didn't seem possible. "...does it matter at this point?"

Nicholas took half a step forwards before he stopped himself. "It mattered to you." There was something in Nicholas's voice that Mark couldn't identify. If he'd thought Nicholas felt sympathy it might have been that. "So it matters."

"I suppose it does rather remove any grounds for complaint on my part doesn't it?" He hadn't meant for the words to sound so accusatory.

"Mark..." Nicholas's reaction was immediate, consternation barely hidden by his professional mask.

"No," Mark cut him off. "No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that and I know you didn't either." He let his face fall into his hands. He felt achingly exposed and loath to face Nicholas and say what needed to be said. "God - if you'd asked me if I was sure one more time I'd have..." Pushed on? Insisted? He'd been so sure he was right. That it had been the next round in their ongoing game. The last round. He'd been right about that at least. "...I don't know." He forced himself to look up, meet Nicholas eyes. "It wasn't like you didn't tell me." He meant it as reassurance but, if anything, Nicholas looked worse. "I'm honestly surprised you didn't punch me, the way I jumped on you."

"I try to make it a policy not to punch good looking men who are jumping on me. As long as they aren't also jumping me." Nicholas's voice caught and didn't quiet manage the joke. "I am sorry though," he said, somber but with emphasis, "I should have stopped you. I should have..."

They were fools together then. Mark wanted to ask what Nicholas had thought was happening - what he'd thought it meant - but there were some things it was better not to know.

"I don't think I really have any higher ground on this one." It would be so much easier if he could give into the temptation and blame Nicholas. But, of all the things that Nicholas had done, how could he hate him for this; an act of intimacy, shared, mistakenly perhaps, but not stolen. "Even when I started remembering bits when I woke up I didn't tell anyone."

How did one say: 'that rogue projection you're all worrying about - I think we might've had sex. Possibly quite a few times. Which is a little odd as I don't fancy men. Is that normal?' There'd been more than enough said around the topic in their normal discussions to reassure him (not that he had needed reassurance) and he'd taken that excuse, and it was an excuse, not to raise the issue.

Nicholas frowned. "This was something that'd happened before - with the projection?"

"I suppose you could say that." Mark flushed and hated himself for it. "Not exactly..." He stopped - that was much more detail that Nicholas needed to know, or at least have confirmed.

"And this has been going on for a while?" Nicholas pressed with the kind of exasperated resignation that Mark had become familiar with when they worked together.

"I think so. Although I honestly can't remember when it began. Or how." He'd tried but his memory was still so spotty. "Damn it - it's bloody embarrassing. It was just one of those things you know without knowing how or why you know but it didn't seem to matter. I should be apologising to you..."

It sounded so stupid but at the time Mark hadn't questioned it. Just another oddity of dreaming.

"Don't Mark. You don't ever need to apologise to me and especially not about this." That oddly tight look was back around in Nicholas's expression; lost. He looked lost and if Mark had had any help to give he would have done so but they had already fallen off the edge of his world. "If anyone should be apologising it's me." Nicholas took a steadying breath and became the good little operative once more. "And I'm sorry to ask this," he continued relentlessly, "but I have to: your file..."

Mark wanted to laugh. Of all things for Nicholas to feel the need to be delicate about.

"It's okay. And the answer is no. I've never been, I'm not, attracted to men." Mark met Nicholas's pale winter eyes and realised that their might be a reason to be delicate after all. "In general," he said, not sure if it was a kindness but knowing it had to be said, "or in particular."

Nicholas regarded him thoughtfully, face unreadable, then flashed a smile. "It's mutual, in case you were wondering." Mark realised he must have looked a little shocked as Nicholas quickly elaborated. "I'm not saying you aren't good looking - I'm not blind - but being attracted to men in general doesn't necessarily mean an attraction to any _one_ in particular."

"I..." Mark wasn't entirely sure what the correct response was to that. "Right."

Nicholas gave a little apologetic shrug.

The knowledge of what had happened between them hung in the air; the scent of the sweat soaked into their clothes and the salt-sharp hint of semen still detectable by guilty minds if not guilty noses. Mark shifted, telling himself that the feeling of stickiness against his skin was all in his imagination.

"Why?" he demanded, all the remorse at his own stupidity coming flooding back.

Why do I have this projection in my head?

Why does it look like you?

Why did I go along with it?

Why didn't I believe you when you told me who you were?

Why didn't you say no?

Why did any of this happen?

He didn't expect an answer.

"Not everything is necessarily what it seems," Nicholas offered the platitude as if was the solution to the unsolvable.

Regret-fed rage flared, burning and unstoppable, and Mark snapped, "It think this was pretty unmistakeable."

He fancied that he could see a matching fury, barely banked, in Nicholas's eyes before Nicholas looked away. But it was just fancy; wishful thinking on his part to believe Nicholas had been affected by events in any significant way. And, really, it was a horribly thing to wish for.

"Did Eames or Arthur ever tell you their theory about the projection?" Nicholas asked in an even, controlled tone.

Mark shook his head. He'd hadn't even known that they had a theory.

"They think that it become so ingrained in your subconscious that you have a minder watching over you that your mind created one."

Mark stared at him, wanting to laugh but afraid that if he started he wouldn't stop.

"I always hated your ability to get under my skin." Hated that he'd allowed it to happen. Hated that it was the price for the good that he could do. "I hadn't realised it was so literal."

Nicholas - the anti-Jiminy Cricket. Except that he'd had that little voice whispering in his ear for far longer than he'd known Nicholas.

"You might have given it my face," Nicholas echoed Mark's thoughts, "but I think that that projection is not me so much as about what I represent."

"I'm not following." But even as he said it, Mark knew it was a lie.

"Tyrgyztan, Washington, dreamsharing." Nicholas counted off the millstones around Mark's professional neck as if Mark could possibly forget them. "You know too much for Whitehall to let you run around unmonitored. You have your autonomy, within limits. You said it yourself - you've been through security clearance, more than once: they know your history, things about you that even your wife or close friends don't; your educational transcripts; your psychological and emotional profiles..."

"Even the thoughts in my head," Mark said and the words tasted almost as bitter as they sounded.

"The human mind is an amazing thing - when it can't deal with something as it is, it makes it into something it can deal with."

"If it isn't abuse it must be love?" That was really the bridge Nicholas was trying to sell him? "For Christ's sake Nicholas..."

"I'm not saying it's the right answer." Nicholas said quickly. "Just that it's possible."

Did that make Mark the battered spouse, child or hostage?

"And it looks like you because you're the person I've worked most closely with?" Mark was willing to humour him on that point even if the rest was hokum. Nicholas paused, hovering around saying something with a reticence that told Mark he wouldn't like whatever it was that Nicholas wasn't saying. "Go on," Mark insisted.

"And because of Washington."

Washington - an ice-cold chill past down Mark's spine at the word on Nicholas's tongue. Washington had gained him a wife and a child, the family he had never thought he would have, but at the cost of so many lives.

"You did the right thing in the end." It had to be said and Mark didn't think he ever had before. "Without you..." Without Jane copying the files you destroyed...

Nicholas gave him a gimlet eye. "I was doing the right thing the entire time." He sounded so sure. "At the end that was working with you."

Mark didn't know how he could be so certain when the conspiracy had shaken every foundation that Mark had had.

"So it was all just an extended metaphor for my getting royally screwed by my keepers." By Nicholas.

As embodied by the image of Nicholas.

"And coming to terms with it," Nicholas added. "With," he conceded without apparent judgement, "a few lingering resentments?"

"Just a few," Mark agreed sardonically. He looked around the room - unwitting host to betrayal in two countries and two realities. "So what was this?"

Nicholas met his eyes with that steady calm way of his that could mean everything or nothing. "This was you taking control."

A bark of amusement, too broken to hold anything but the darkest humour, slipped out before Mark could censor it. Because it wasn't funny at all but comedy and tragedy had always been a duology and, given the choice, who wouldn't choose laughter. "I notice I'm still the one that got fucked."

"But on your terms," Nicholas said, quiet and firm, and Mark let out a breath of surprise because he was right and the shock it it stole any words that Mark might've otherwise said.

And wasn't that the saddest part of all.

"You're right," Mark admitted. He had his answers now - more than he had ever thought to get - and they explained nothing. "You're right."

"Mark," Nicholas said, subdued and all smoothness gone, "are we..?"

"It's okay Nicholas. We're okay." He meant it as more than a politician's pledge but at that moment it was all he could give. "I just need a little time." He breathed out, a slow, steadying breath. "I know there are probably projections out there but could you..?"

For a moment Mark thought Nicholas was going to say something more but he just nodded acquiescence. "I'll be outside," he promised

Mark couldn't bring himself to watch him leave.

~~~~

> _If all men count with you, but none too much..._

~~~~

The office door was locked, as it was supposed to be, but it was the work of moments to dispose of that impediment. Eames eased the door closed behind him and looked around. The office was as expected (it was Arthur) and blessedly free of projections (out chasing Arthur in all likelihood). They had time on the clock but Arthur, as good as he was, could only hold out for so long. They'd made it easy for themselves - the filing cabinet in the corner of the room was also secured, but it was still a filing cabinet. He could break into one of them blindfolded, drunk off his arse and armed only with a toothpick (twice, and once with a paperclip).

The drawer was full of folders, the minutiae of local government all neatly categorised and labelled for Eames's perusal. Nothing too classified, Mark was a well trained bureaucrat and filing cabinets were only for the little, day to day secrets... like the minutes of briefings. The hardest part was figuring out Mark's mental filing system (between a folder containing Azzam's grades and one with spreadsheets charting his increase in grey hair). Eames shuffled the folder out (blue-grey, stamped confidential). Inside was one sheet of paper (embossed, HMGov logo) and their answer. Putting everything back as he had found it (force of habit) Eames looked around the room. What he should do was go and find Arthur. The projections would be especially riled now that Eames had reached Mark's secrets - kicking themselves out of the dream or helping Arthur keep the lid on things until the time ran out was the conventional thing to do. Eames had never been very good at conventional.

If it had been any other office then it might have been different, or at least he might have thought about it for slightly longer, but he knew this office. It wasn't a complete surprise - it was Arthur's level and he'd worked closely with Shiv on the design. The walls were a different shade of institutional beige, the desk was slightly nicer and much tidier, but it was the same room that Arthur had used for an extraction in Madrid (insider trading disguised as marital infidelity). In the original version of the room (hotel office rather then parliamentary) there had been the manager's safe behind one of the hideous pieces of cheap art on the farthest wall. The art was much more tasteful but it was still there and Eames was willing to bet that the safe was there as well. Bless Arthur, his obsessive little mind and his complete lack of imagination. Tell him to build three impossible things before breakfast and he'd argue every little detail but present you with exactly what you needed. Wait a year and ask him to do it again and he'd have every little thing down to the last detail. Most people would change it a little; refine it, give it some flair, play with it. That was assuming that they hadn't forgotten what they did. Arthur wouldn't forget, but he would think to change things purely on whim either. The safe had been behind the picture before, there was no reason for Arthur to change it and so...

Eames eased the picture off the wall and smiled to himself. This was more like it. He hadn't really come equipped for safe cracking but a little improvisation and a whole lot of skill (thank you, thank you) and the door clicked open. Eames hadn't been entirely sure what he expected to find. Nicholas would hardly prompt Mark any more than necessary for the job. There was a good chance that it would hold something completely random and inane; one of those everyday little secrets that floated around at the back of your mind from one moment to the next (secret family recipe for Christmas stuffing, testament of real feelings about the mother-in-law/boss, favourite ten romantic comedies etc).

He looked inside.

There were folders - which was a good start.

Right in the centre of the safe, stacked very meticulously, were two thick, red files, bound together with an elastic band. As Eames pulled them out something dislodged, rattling against the floor of the vault. Interesting and interesting-er as Alice would say. Eames put his arm in and felt around, coming out with first one and then a second small video tape of the type that you got in old camcorders. He took them out and weighed them in his hand. Two files, two tapes - could be relevant, could be coincidence. The only visible hint about their content were the two dates, one on the spine of each cassette box: 14/06/99 and 03/06/99. Eames frowned thoughtfully as he looked at the one he had pulled out second. Unless he was very much mistaken (hah!) the date matched the combination. Holding it up between his finger and thumb he tapped it against the discovered files thoughtfully. It was one of those interesting peculiarities of dream logic that Chekhov's gun held true; you couldn't dream up a type of media for which there was no corresponding player (and conversely if you found a player then there would be something, somewhere, that would go in it) and Eames was distinctly curious about what was on the tapes.

Papers first. He put the two cassettes down on the table and turned his attention back to the files. The elastic holding them had aged, crumbling a little, vitality almost gone. It broke as he tried to ease it off, too degraded even to snap. The top file said 'Tyrgyztan' in dark, neat letters (Mark's handwriting). Mark had spent time there as Eames recalled, and his son was Tyrgyztani on his mother's side. Someone with a nasty, suspicious mind might try and make something of that. The file underneath was labelled 'Washington'; Mark's last posting before leaving the diplomatic corps for politics. But why those two postings and not any of the others? He'd been with Brocklehurst in Washington which could explain its inclusion. Something must link them in Mark's mind. Chronologically Tyrgyztan had come before Washington so if the tapes related to either file then that was the logical place to start.

Eames just had time to peruse the row of internal labels ('Bukek', 'CMC', 'Usman'...) when the office door swung open. Dropping the file, he went for his gun. Seeing it was Brocklehurst, he changed his aim to the envelope with Mark's answer in and slid it over the other files.

"Bloody hell, Brock," he muttered. "A little warning..."

Brocklehurst stepped fully into the room, an almost smile on his lips and a pistol pointed at Eames head.

Bugger.

'This is getting to be a habit' he thought with fatalistic resignation. The gun was too far away but that didn't stop him trying.

Blood splattered across the folders.

Eames woke up.


	19. Chapter 19

> _If you can fill the unforgiving minute..._

~~~~

The juddering-clip of the train over the track was unpleasantly reminiscent of the impact of bullets. It was not the best return to consciousness. Eames looked around the first class train carriage at his sleeping companions and acknowledged that he would be buying the drinks that evening. He disconnected himself and stood up, thankful he had one of the outside seats, and peered out of the door.

"Everything okay, sir," Robbie asked quietly.

"We're good. You might as well take off." Eames looked down the corridor. Empty except for the two of them. "I'll do the cue."

For a brief moment Eames thought Robbie was going to object. He'd been well trained and his training not to leave members of Parliament drugged and alone with strange men fought with months of letting those particular strange men into a secure facility specifically to drug the member of Parliament in question. Eames didn't push - it would be more subtle if Robbie went immediately, it gave him time to get a few carriages along before the next of them traipsed through, but it was hardly vital. Robbie gave him a little nod and walked away, hardly looking like he was carrying heat at all. He wouldn't go far, only to one of the other compartments, but he would be out of their way, and Mark's.

Turning his attention back inside the compartment, Eames checked the clock on the PASIV. Another few minutes to go but he might as well pull them out early. He slipped the headphones over Arthur's ears, checked the volume, and pressed play. It was always amusing to see Arthur hooked up to the PASIV. Despite the inherent indignity of the position he always managed to look so tidy and put together. None of that mouth open, trail of drool nonsense. Brocklehurst was less restrained in his position but had still managed to avoid any embarrassing poses. He twitched slightly in his sleep, his hand falling perilously close to where he'd put Mark's bottle of morning orange juice, moved away from the edge of the table once already to avoid mishap. There was something... Eames sniffed slightly, brow furrowing. He took a closer look at Arthur, ramrod straight next to him, because fight-adrenaline could have some very mixed up effects and Arthur was a man who enjoyed his work (just because he'd never seen it happen before...). Everything was in perfect place.

Eames leant over the table. Sniffed again and peered a little closer. Huh. He frowned unhappily as he sat back down.

Arthur's eyes came open in a flash, dark and aware. Eames saw the question in them as they took in his expression and the lack of Robbie's presence outside the door. He just shook his head minutely to let Arthur know there hadn't been a problem top side and took Robbie's position. He needed a moment to think and they could use the space. Brocklehurst blinked awake a moment later, more groggy in his return, moving with care as he rediscovered the physical world. Even before he was fully back with them he was turning to Mark to check he was okay (cute but futile - any complications wouldn't be visible) and easing the slim needle from his wrist. His eyes caught Eames, took in his position, but didn't linger as he passed the line over to Arthur.

Arthur tidied the PASIV quickly into its case. "Five minutes," he said as he slipped out of the compartment. Nicholas took one last look at Mark and then joined Eames in the corridor. The plan said they should head down to second class and wait there, joining Arthur further down the train at five minute intervals. The thing about plans was that they changed.

Eames bundled them both into the toilet compartment between the first and second class carriages and and hit the door control.

"What happened with Mark?" he hissed before Brocklehurst had a chance to speak, the stink of chemicals and mis-aimed urine sour in his nostrils.

Brocklehurst frowned, trying to step towards the door only to be blocked by Eames arm. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not an idiot, Brock." Eames squared up to him, openly raking his gaze over Brocklehurst's body. "And the signs are pretty damn hard to misinterpret."

Brocklehurst's expression didn't alter. "He must have met up with a projection of his wife."

"And you were just watching through the window?" Eames snarled. "Pull the other one, it makes a nice fucking jiggly noise."

Brocklehurst took a half-step forward, all that was needed to bring them toe to toe. Looking down at Eames he said very clearly, "Back off, Eames."

Eames stared back. "Did he know it was you?"

"Eames," Brocklehurst growled, voice low and warning. He could threaten all as much as he liked, Eames refused to look away.

"Did he?" Eames repeated, and would keep repeating the question as long as it bloody took. Unless Brocklehurst wanted to see how they measured up in the real world these days.

"I'm not a forger," Brocklehurst argued.

"And who the hell knows what is going on with that bloody rogue projection of his," Eames shot back. "Or did you make the first move."

"No!" Brocklehurst stepped away, physically distancing himself from the accusation.

Eames waited.

Brocklehurst dropped his gaze, "I told him," he admitted.

"And did he believe you?"

"Does it matter now?"

"Apparently not." Eames didn't bother trying to keep the disdain from his tone.

"I thought he did," Brocklehurst said quietly, almost to himself. "Damn it - I really thought he did. But then afterwards..."

The train rattled onward, ravenous wheels eating up the miles.

"Oh, you stupid bastard," Eames breathed.

Brocklehurst looked up, shocked, "Christ, no," he denied. "I respect the man, that's all. "

"There's an expression I'm looking for," Eames said thoughtfully. He made a 'got it' hum. "Jingle, jingle."

"You're one to talk," Brocklehurst snapped. "Either take the shot or find another target, sweetheart, because your highly trained friend is not standing in the open with a bull's eye painted on his chest for his health. And you really don't want the decision taken out of your hands, do you?"

The creak and yawn of the carriage was loud in the silence that followed as both men metaphorically drew back, first blood mutually achieved.

"Just how far do you think he can go?" Eames said at last.

"Far." Brocklehurst looked past Eames shoulder into the maybes of the middle-distance. "If the country is lucky."

"I thought you guys weren't supposed to play favourites," Eames scoffed, but it was without accusation.

"We're also taught to recognise ability and potential." Brocklehurst said, soft and sure. "Mark has both."

"You want to see your boy on the throne." It wasn't such a bad aim in the grand scheme of things. He might even vote. Not under his own name, but he was sure Brocklehurst would make certain it got counted.

"I think that might be a little beyond even my capabilities." Brocklehurst had a slight smile on his face as he said it, one that suggested he'd already run down the possibilities and the bloodlines. And probably dismissed the power of a constitutional monarch in favour of parliamentary primacy.

Eames waved the objection away. "You know what I mean."

"He could do it, Eames," Brocklehurst said persuasively.

It wasn't him, or Mark, that Eames doubted. Politics was a gamble, and like most gambles the only way to really win was to run the game. But that was long term and even the house had to take short term losses (which kept him nicely in beer money).

"If you're playing for such high bloody stakes," which Eames was quite prepared to believe he was, "then why the hell did you risk it?"

It had been a long time since he'd had seen Brocklehurst look embarrassed. "Mark's a very difficult man to say 'no' to," Brocklehurst muttered.

Eames stared at him and burst out laughing. "Just remember that when you're moving him into Number 10."

Brocklehurst flushed. "Come on," he said, studiously ignoring Eames's amusement, "we'd better go before someone comes by and thinks we're fucking in here."

Eames looked pointedly downwards, still grinning broadly. "Now why would they possibly think that?" Eames waved off a response, hitting the release button. "You might want to clean up," he said as the door began its slow slide open. "Catch you later."

Eames waited until the door had completely closed on Brocklehurst, the locked sign lit, and then nipped back to Mark's compartment. He was still asleep. Fully loosening the cap on the orange juice Eames balanced it carefully and precariously near the edge of the table. It was an overnight trip - Mark would have a change of clothes in his bag - and all it would take would be a little bump... A lapful of juice (with pulp) might not eliminate the evidence of oneiric emissions but it would definitely confuse the issue. They might get lucky (in the non-euphemistic sense). All things considered, it was better this way.

Brocklehurst made it to the meeting point (second to last carriage) first and Eames could tell Arthur was half-way to coming to find him (the other half probably concerned with the disposal of his body once Arthur had found him).

"Where the hell have you been?" Arthur demanded when he reached them.

Eames pulled up short. "Bog," he said. "Also had a quiet word with Robbie. He's staying on till the end - just to be safe."

"Next station's in ten minutes," Arthur recited, apparently satisfied, or at least not interested in pursuing it further. "We should have about half an hour before the train back to London."

Brocklehurst gave him a skeptical look but didn't say anything. He seemed a more comfortable than he had when Eames had left him.

"I don't know about you," Eames said to the world at large. "But I could do with a drink."

Brocklehurst's suspicion mutated into benign maliciousness. "And I do believe it's your round," he agreed.

The train jolted around a curve and Eames smiled. Yes, he believed it was.


	20. Chapter 20

> _With sixty seconds' worth of distance run..._

~~~~

Mark had grown almost fond of the anonymous office where he had spent hours for minutes at a time over the last few months. It didn't surprise him that they were all there: Eames with his Merchant-Ivory affectations and the more conservative Arthur - trading blunted barbs with that strange combination of respect and rivalry that seemed to characterise their interactions. And Nicholas - whom Mark still expected to find at his elbow whenever he found himself in the presence of an educated American drawl - watching them all with an amused expression.

"I was expecting the message," Mark admitted. "It was last Monday, wasn't it? On the train."

He found himself more sanguine about the whole thing than he had expected; the contempt of familiarity he supposed. It still grated. Not just the knowledge itself, but his own failure to do more than rant impotently at Nicholas, to do nothing more buckle down like a good boy and follow his orders whether he agreed with them or not. And that was the rub wasn't it? He might not agree, he certainly didn't like them... but he didn't completely disagree either.

"It was," Arthur confirmed. "Please have a seat."

Mark raised an eyebrow at the formality but did as Arthur suggested.

Nicholas stepped forward. "Following your recent training, it was agreed that an extraction would be run on you. The target was a specific piece of information that you would be given in your daily briefing."

Nicholas and Arthur both turned to look at their companion.

"Mr Eames," Arthur prompted.

Eames cleared his throat with theatrical necessity.

"All men dream:" he began, "but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible." He paused, looking at each of them in turn, "Mr T. E. Lawrence," and took a little bow.

He had a good voice for public speaking, modulated and lyrical. Still, it was hard not to feel disappointed.

Mark nodded confirmation. "So what happens now?"

"Eames..." Arthur prompted again.

"Had we got that quote from your mind," Eames began, "then we would be having a conversation about continuing training schedules, what went wrong. As it is..." He trailed off, flashing a grin.

"I don't understand," Mark admitted as everyone looked at him expectantly.

"You did it, Mark," Nicholas said softly.

"Not our finest hour," Eames agreed. "We got our man to the information but you'd managed to block it out." The grin was back, irrepressible and satisfied. "You kept us out Mark, well done."

Nicholas and Arthur both nodded seriously.

"So how did you know?"

Eames shrugged. "It was a quote selected by a civil servant as a prize in an extraction attempt on a member of parliament. The biggest surprise was that it wasn't Shakespeare but the way the quote was laid out, which was all we were able to get, was all wrong for iambic pentameters. We," he inclined his head towards Arthur, "did a little investigation." Mark wondered how far that investigation went and decided it was probably better that he didn't know. "It wasn't hard to guess."

Mark wasn't sure why he was surprised, it was hardly out of character for at least two of the three men standing in front of him and regarding him with varying levels of amusement.

He didn't try too hard to keep the growing delight out of his voice. "Isn't that cheating?"

"We got the information," Arthur told him with prim precision but the hint of a smile breaking through the professional demeanour. "Just not from you. Congratulations."

"The last test and your last lesson." Eames said, catching Mark's eyes and holding them. "There are a lot of ways to get information. Just because extraction is possible it doesn't mean it's the most effective, or practical."

Mark nodded. He could go public. Despite what Nicholas had said there were ways to spin the information, already in the public domain or not, that would whip up outrage and steamroll something on to the books. But knee jerk legislation caused as many problems as it solved, assuming it was even solving the right problem. No - just because you could do something it didn't mean it was the best way. Something needed to be done; protections put in place, support and legal recourse for victims - but sometimes you had to work around the problem rather than attacking it head on.

"Yes," Mark agreed, "I'm sure it isn't," and turned to accept Arthur's congratulations.

He could feel Eames's eyes on him as Nicholas brought out a bottle of champagne, the cork popping with such cheerful abandon that the security guard stationed down the corridor peered in to make sure everyone was alive. In a fulsome mood Eames invited him in but he shook his head politely and withdrew.

"Is it safe to drink around you guys?" Mark asked, as straight-faced as he could manage when Nicholas handed him his glass.

Eames chuckled and even Arthur looked amused.

"We promise no more extractions today," Arthur assured him.

"Unless we're lying," Eames added and Arthur frowned at him.

Mark put his hand over his drink and pretended to move it closer to his body and away from possible dangers.

"And," Eames continued blithely, ignoring Arthur's dark look completely, "then you'd have to ask yourself whether we'd dose your drink or your cup. In this situation Brock would have to be in on it, which means he could have done either before he handed it to you."

Collecting everyone's attention Mark pointedly raised his glass to all of them and took a sip. From that point the 'meeting' devolved into an open, if restrained, celebration.

All things considered, it was for the best that the supposed debriefing had been scheduled for the end of the day - Nicholas's doing, Mark suspected.

"So how much do you remember?" Eames asked, topping up Mark's glass for the second time. Arthur had stepped out to use the bathroom and Nicholas futzing in the small kitchenette which Mark hoped would result in something to soak up the alcohol a little.

Mark shrugged. "Nothing, really. A few bits and pieces, I guess. I remember walking into a room and everyone looking like Nicholas - although that might just have been a sign I should lay off the cheese before bed."

Eames looked over as Nicholas came back into the room. "Oh, I don't know," he murmured. "Nothing like a good bit of English cheddar."

Mark laughed. "I remember running. And...I think I might have met up with my wife."

Eames raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Oh," Mark agreed.

"And you remembered when you woke up?"

Nicholas joined them, looking at them curiously as he offered them a plate of M&S best party fancies.

"Not the details..." Mark acknowledged as he took a miniaturised fruit tart. They really were rather good. "But then I woke up with a lapful of orange juice so I wasn't really paying much attention. One of you couldn't have moved the bottle away from the edge of the table?"

"Sorry," Eames offered. "Didn't realise."

"I suppose this is where you tell me it didn't actually happen and she was you?"

Eames held up his hands in the classic gesture of surrender - or as close as he could get with a champagne flute in one hand and a tiny pink and yellow battenberg in the other. "Not me," he disavowed. "I'm afraid I was otherwise occupied."

Arthur returned and the discussion drifted back to more general things. Finishing his glass and fancy Mark excused himself for a moment, pleasantly buzzed but more concerned with the other effects of the amount he'd imbibed. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looked back at him without reproach, slightly flushed and surprisingly content. There were other worlds out there, amazing worlds that he could only imagine, but he was happier to be one of those dangerous dreamers of the day and working towards building a better reality.

Nicholas was pouring himself an orange juice when Mark got back to the room. One last glass, he decided, and then he should go home. Nicholas looked up as he got close.

"Orange," he offered, "or I think there is about half a glass of bubbly left. It needs finishing off."

"Might as well," Mark agreed.

Nicholas picked up Mark's discarded glass and did the honours. His estimate proved correct.

"Straight, or topped up with orange?"

Mark smiled, remembering. "I haven't had a buck's fizz since new year. Go on."

Drink prepared, Nicholas handed it to him and raised his own glass.

"Congratulations, Mark," Nicholas toasted him, warm and proud. The unexpected intimacy of the moment tugged at him. Not for the first time he wondered what it was that Nicholas saw in him, and what made him think Mark could live up to that esteem. And whether he should be worried. He knew he'd never be able to adequately explain to Jane why Nicholas's unapologetic lack of scruples in the name of the greater good didn't bother him - maybe it was as simple as knowing that he'd always have someone like Nicholas shadowing his every move and, given the choice, he'd rather have Nicholas than anyone else.

"Thank you." He wasn't just talking about the felicitation but he had a feeling that Nicholas knew that. Nicholas probably had a better idea of all the things that Mark was thanking him for than Mark did himself. Across the room Eames and Arthur were talking quietly, the smirk on Eames's face not quite malicious and the slanting lines above Arthur's nose not quite a frown. He was going to miss their sessions but at the same time he was glad it was over. He raised his glass and touched it to Nicholas's. "Thank you," he said again.


	21. Chapter 21

> _Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it..._

~~~~

London was grey; low cloud, not thick enough to be fog, wound a funeral shroud about all the buildings. The air was chill and clammy against any bare skin. It was also playing merry hell with the airlines. For a country that spent so much time wreathed in cloud and rain, Arthur would've thought that they'd be more prepared. The list of delays and cancellations on the departure board told a different story.

Arthur checked his flight numbers against the board and turned back to his two companions. Eames was looking up his own flight information while Nicholas waited calmly for them to finish. It was touching that Nicholas had come to see them off although Arthur would have been more touched if he hadn't been sure he was also there to make sure they left the country.

"Delayed," he confirmed. "But it looks like it's all knock-on effects from the earlier cancellations."

"Ditto." Eames looked about the crowded check-in hall. "If you could just excuse me a moment."

Arthur watched him saunter away, his attention caught by one of the over-priced shops that serviced the pre-check-in crowd.

"If airport security catch him," Nicholas murmured, echoing Arthur's thoughts, "at least I don't have to worry abut bailing him out any more."

"He won't get caught," Arthur said gloomily. Eames never did. It was one of the things that made his ego particularly unmanageable.

They stood there in silence, watching the boards tick up destinations and instructions as the crush of humanity dithered and parted around them.

"Do you fish at all?" Nicholas asked.

Arthur eyed him cautiously. "It's been known," he conceded. It actually hadn't - that was what shops were for - but he very much doubted that Nicholas was actually planning on talking about marine animals.

"Land your catch or release him back to the wild." Nicholas's gaze rested on Eames as he spoke, although that might have had something to do with the way Eames had just palmed a pair of cuff-links from one of the displays. "It's cruel to leave him thrashing about on the hook."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Maybe I'm not the one you should be telling," he said coolly. "It's not like I put bait in the water."

Nicholas nodded acknowledgement of his point. "I said the same to him."

That was news to Arthur.

"And I could say the same to you." Arthur turned the conversation away from Eames, wanting to buy a little time to reflect on what Nicholas's game was.

"Not my hook." Nicholas rejected the insinuation. "Not my line."

And that was what it was all about, wasn't it?

"You understand," Arthur kept his voice steady, "that even if something were ever to happen between Eames and I," and he most certainly wasn't saying that it would, or even that it might, "you still wouldn't get me as a bonus to whatever deal you've got running with him."

Nicholas's smile was light but undimmed. "We are aware you're an independent, and these days legitimate, contractor," he assured Arthur. "We wouldn't want to do anything that might compromise that independence."

Arthur was quite sure they wouldn't - plausible deniability was a very valuable commodity.

"If you ever decide to come over to our side of the tracks, give me a call," he said with some admiration. They wanted him and they wanted to keep their hands completely clean. It was the sort of cleverness he could appreciate in the right circumstances. Less so when he was the target.

Nicholas raised his eyebrows in question. "So you can nobble the competition early?"

Arthur laughed. "Given the option, Mr Brocklehurst," he said firmly, "I think I would rather you were with us rather than against us."

"Given the option..." Nicholas's eye twinkled with his own repressed humour, "I think I would as well. If you ever decide to come in from the cold..." he offered.

"Thank you but I find it plenty warm enough where I am."

Nicholas's gaze drifted back to where Eames was engaged in a very friendly looking conversation with the young saleswoman at a speciality delicatessen counter. He appeared to be charming her out of free samples.

"It's good to see your mates happy," Nicholas remarked meaninglessly.

"Then you should be hoping he stays far away from me." Arthur meant it.

"He's a big boy." Unlike Eames, Nicholas was able to say that without it sounding vulgar. Sadly that couldn't stop Arthur from thinking it. Nicholas kept going as if he hadn't noticed the slight downturn in Arthur's expression, "And he's always made his own choices." Nicholas's shrug disavowed all responsibility for Eames in general and those choices in particular.

"Yes," Arthur agreed, looking directly into the eyes of Eames's old friend? fuck-buddy? comrade-in-arms?, "he has."

And not always bad ones. They understood each other perfectly.

"Arthur," Nicholas said. It was respectful acknowledgement and au revoir.

"Nicholas," Arthur replied in the same tone. They shook hands. Arthur didn't fool himself it was goodbye.

Eames ambled back, a wary countenance spoiling his show of nonchalance as he registered that something had happened in his absence.

"Time we should head through," he suggested, taking in Nicholas and Arthur's close proximity and scrutinising each of them in turn.

Arthur bore the threat assessment with some amusement. If Eames was going to wander off to play tourist then he deserved all the paranoia that he brought on himself. Eames was right about one thing though; it was time to leave. He gathered up his coat and valise and nodded a final farewell to Nicholas - it was too much to hope that Eames wouldn't find him when they cleared security (or that Eames wouldn't get through). And, perhaps, he didn't walk away as quickly as he might have done, wanting to hear what was said.

"If we need you again, Eames," Nicholas informed him, "we know how to find you."

"I don't suppose there's anything I could do to persuade you to forget," Eames said hopefully.

Nicholas's expression didn't change.

"I didn't think so."

"Think of it as giving something back to the country that invested so much time and money in your education and training," Nicholas suggested in a unsympathetic manner.

Eames's smile was patently false and wasn't intended to be anything else. "That helps so much," he grumbled.

Nicholas leaned forward, speaking almost too softly for Arthur to hear. "Then think of it as being better than the alternative."

To Arthur's surprise Eames smiled. "Look after yourself, sweetheart," he said fondly. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do - I'd hate to have to shoot you."

Nicholas grinned back. "You too, darling. We'd hate to have to disown you so try not to cause any international incidents."

"You just worry about domestic ones," Eames retorted. "Let me know when I should send in my vote."

The two men embraced and Arthur was reminded, once again, of the wierdness of the English. He sped up his pace, wanting to make sure that there were people between himself and Eames as they were processed. Just in case.

As it happened, neither of them encountered any more difficulties beyond the normal inexperienced travellers holding up the queues. Arthur had his laptop and toiletries out and ready, his belt off, pockets emptied and had actually read the information on whether shoes needed to be removed before he had reached the scanner.

"Do you have an umbrella in your bag?" the lady behind the conveyor belt asked as she shuffled grey plastic trays into place.

Arthur shook his head. "Thank you," he told her politely. His laptop went into one tray, necessaries, belt and carefully folded jacket in a second. He slipped his totem into his cuff, specifically chosen for this very reason, because he wasn't willing to let it out of his sight even for the length of the scan. All it would take was for the operator to be bought or not what they seemed and his totem would be worthless.

At the nod from security he stepped forward through the metal scanner. It stayed gratifyingly silent and he collected his belongings.

Eames, in another queue, was standing in his stocking feet and pulling small change and miscellaneous gewgaws out of his pockets and scattering them into a small tray being held out by a long suffering attendant. Arthur supposed that was one possible way to get a totem through security, assuming Eames hadn't thought far enough ahead to select a non-metallic one. Leaving Eames, and his related spectacle, behind Arthur went to see if there was a gate up yet. And, failing that, to find a good cup of coffee.

Eames caught up with him in the first class lounge.

"So, what was that about?" Eames asked, insinuating himself by Arthur's side. "You and Brock."

Arthur wavered between telling him to fuck off, telling him it was none of his business and making something up. In the end he went with the truth. It wasn't worth lying about and there was the smallest chance it would get Eames to shut up.

"He wanted to have a quick word about fishing," Arthur told him with complete honesty. Eames expression said very eloquently that he thought Arthur was having him on. The tragedy of Cassandra - to speak the truth and not be believed. Although Arthur was of the opinion the whole being raped, enslaved and murdered by your rapist/master's wife when he brought you home was hardly shits and giggles. "And to offer me a job," he granted.

"Oh," Eames thought about that. "Did you take it?"

"No," Arthur said. "But I didn't turn it down either."

"They aren't very good with 'no'," Eames said dourly. Then he brightened, "But luckily you're already on the first flight out of here."

"What about you?" Arthur asked.

Eames shrugged. "I thought I might pop over to Denmark."

Arthur held up his ticket, the destination clearly visible.

"Oh, look," Eames said with false cheer, revealing his own ticket. "They've even got us adjoining seats."

Arthur looked. They had. He automatically looked over his shoulder but Nicholas was back on the other side of the security barriers and well out of range. "Did you know about this?" he demanded.

"Not this time," Eames shook his head. "I assumed you were heading back to the US."

"No, as it happens," Arthur said through only slightly clenched teeth. "I thought I would drop in on the clinic - since I was in Europe anyway."

"Really?" Eames sounded surprised. "I hadn't taken you for the sentimental type."

For good reason. It took Arthur a few moments to realise what Eames was getting at. "What? Oh, Ariadne." He supposed he might as well see her while she was there; check how she was doing and reassure Kaj that there were no hard feelings on his part. "I'll drop by the ward and take her some flowers or something."

"I was thinking of chocolates," Eames confided. He held up a duty free bag and waggled it.

Arthur frowned. "I don't think she's awake yet."

"Then I'll just have to eat them for her as well," Eames brushed the problem away. "Has the prognosis changed?"

"Not that I've heard." While he was there maybe he could persuade them to stop sending him iterative updates. Or give them Cobb's address and tell them to send them there instead. "They said all the signs were positive."

There were only two outcomes he needed to know about: she'd woken up and was fine or she wasn't going to wake up at all. That way he'd know what type of flowers to send and whether he needed to delete her name from his contacts.

"Good, good." Eames nodded like one of those bobble-head dolls that people with no taste put on their car dashboards. "Be good to catch up on some of their work while we're waiting for sleeping beauty to stir."

Because Arthur was really about to believe that Eames was going there out of the goodness of his heart.

"You're thinking about the projection?" he stated with resignation.

Eames stopped nodding which Arthur took to be 'yes'. "It looks like we might be stuck with each other a while longer." Eames put his hand over his heart - right where someone would aim. "You have my sincere condolences."

"Well," Arthur capitulated. He was going to regret this, in fact he regretted it already, "we made it through the job without killing each other." A pleasant thought occurred to him. "And Dom owes me two grand."

Eames pulled his 'surprised-and-shocked' face. "He paid you to come here?"

"That as well. The two grand was a bet." Of all people Eames would understand that. "Or possibly a bribe since he was betting on us both surviving the experience."

"Ah," Eames said with a knowing tone that immediately made Arthur suspicious, "the fight or fuck bet he used to have with Mal."

Arthur stopped, not caring about the dirty looks that he was getting from the people being forced to navigate around him. "What?"

"You didn't know about that bit?" Eames deduced abashed.

Arthur really wished he could convince himself that Eames was messing with him.

"Why?"

"Because Mal was a dirty pervert like the rest of us and was hoping for pictures?" Eames suggested helplessly.

That was it. "I'm not having this conversation," Arthur declared, setting off towards the gate at a brisk pace and ignoring Eames completely. He might not be able to keep it up all the way to Copenhagen but he was going to have a damn good try.

And after that...

After that they would have to see.


	22. Epilogue

> _And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!_

~~~~

`TOP SECRET`

`Transcript of recording #SLPR-K487F-11e, 2/2`

 

`NB: Partial success. The Sleeper took, but the integration was more complex than we anticipated.`

`M: I look forward to reading your full report. Are there any particular areas of concern?`

`NB: A risk-assessment needs to be run on the level of trust that the Sleeper is accorded by the host mind. Should a forger successfully imitate it...`

`M: Quite. What defences are in place to prevent that eventuality?`

`NB: The Sleeper would have to be overcome itself or it would intervene but, as has been shown, this can be done. Active violence would tip off the projections but that's always a possibly during extractions - if the extractors were able to identify, remove and forge the Sleeper then they would have a direct line of trust to the host which could be leveraged extremely easily.`

`M: What do you suggest?`

`NB: There are a few possibilities. The identity of the model must be considered highly classified as top priority. It is also possible...`

`M: Yes?`

`NB: The tests with multiple Sleepers proved unviable?`

`M: Trials are continuing. Assume that it's not an option at present.`

`NB: Extractors typically have some item or object that is unique to them, something that they don't allow anyone else to touch.`

`M: Totems - we are aware.`

`NB: My recommendation would be to see if a similar mechanism could be added into the Sleeper - an object, pass phrase or behaviour which is unique to that Sleeper and could be used to identify the true imprint in the event of a forging attempt. It would have to be something that couldn't be deduced from observation of either that host or the model external to the dreamstate.`

`M: An interesting proposal. We'll have to check with the technical department about feasibility. You're thinking a hypno-implant? Do you think it will be possible to continue this line of enquiry with the current subject.`

`NB: Possibly - although the extractors were beginning to get curious.`

`M: How curious?`

`NB: They booked tickets to Copenhagen.`

`M: You think they're heading to the clinic there.`

`NB: It seems likely.`

`M: Is this a problem that needs to be taken care of?`

`NB: No. They currently believe the projection to be an oddity, or, as they called it, a rogue. If they believed otherwise it's unlikely that they would be going to the Copenhagen centre.`

`M: And if they come to re-evaluate this belief?`

`NB: Their profiles and my observations suggest that they understand the value of discretion. They may feel that informing their client falls within their duties even though their employment has officially ended - again, according to everything we have on them, the challenge of integrating the Sleeper more efficiently into the militarisation could be regarded as a strong incentive.`

`M: Unconfirmed disclosure to the subject would be acceptable - so long as our involvement is not revealed. Contact our operatives on the clinic staff and continue to monitor the situation. If there's any suggestion that the information may be leaked further then measures will have to be taken.`

`NB: Understood.`

`M: And the other matter?`

`NB: Difficult to tell. I believe that the groundwork has been laid but whether it's acted upon in such a way that will benefit us...`

`M: Something else for our agents in Denmark to keep an eye out for. Keep me apprised. That will be all Mr B_________ send a copy of your report to my secretary as soon as it is completed.`

`NB: Ma'am.`

 

`2/2`

 

`TOP SECRET`

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter/section quotes are from 'If...' by Rudyard Kipling.


End file.
